Gemotions

The phone rang, shattering the tense quiet. Michael answered it, his voice tight. It was his supervisor, checking in. He wanted to tell them to go to hell, that he wouldn't do this, that this was all a terrible mistake. But he plastered on a fake cheerfulness instead.

"Yes, sir, everything's going great," he heard himself say, his voice thin and reedy. He felt a sharp pain behind his eyes, a headache blooming with the insidious speed of a poison ivy rash. He wanted to smash the phone to pieces.

He ended the call, the silence returning with a vengeance. He turned back to the trainee, a kid fresh out of college, who was already smirking. This was an insult. This entire situation was an insult. He balled his hands into fists under the desk.