Gemotions

He’d driven to the office in a daze, the car practically piloting itself. The directions were a blur, a cruel mockery of the clarity he craved. The parking lot was full; he circled twice, each rotation a fresh wave of nausea rising in his throat. Finally, he found a space, killed the engine, and just sat there, staring at the brick building. The sign read "Willow Creek Counseling." The therapist's name: Kevin Davies.

He dragged himself out of the car, legs leaden. Kevin Davies. The same Kevin Davies who used to shove him into lockers, steal his lunch money, call him names. Now he was supposed to pour out his pain to this man? He entered the building, his stomach churning, and his face burning with a mix of shame and rage.

He found himself sitting in a sterile room, staring at a framed print of a sailboat on the ocean. "So," a voice said, breaking through the fog. It was Kevin, older, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. The gentle voice was the last thing he expected. Kevin gestured towards a box of tissues. He didn't want the tissues, or the kindness. He just wanted it to stop.