Gemotions

The drive there had been a blur of tears and shallow breaths. She couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The world was a monochrome landscape. The appointment was her mother's idea, a gentle push toward… something. The therapist's name, however, sent a jolt of ice through her. Michael Peterson. Her bully.

The waiting room smelled of lavender and ambition. The magazines lay untouched on the table, their bright covers mocking her misery. She clenched and unclenched her fists, trying to find some purchase on reality. She wanted to run.

The door opened. He looked older, more filled out, but there was no mistaking the shape of his jaw, the glint in his eye. He smiled, a polite, professional smile, and said, "Come in, please. I'm Michael." She just stared at him. The thought of exposing her vulnerability to *him* made her want to scream.