Gemotions

He slammed the car door a little too hard. The metal reverberated with a sound that seemed to amplify his internal state. He’d driven across town in rush hour traffic, and a flat tire on the way had just put the final nail in the coffin of his already wrecked afternoon. Now, he was here, and it made him physically ill.

The reception area was filled with the usual platitudes of soft lighting and pastel colors. He wanted nothing more than to leave, but he felt trapped, like a caged animal. He ran a hand through his hair, finding a few stray strands sticking up, the result of a futile attempt to look presentable. He felt a throbbing sensation in his temples.

He heard his name, pulled from his spiraling thoughts. The voice was smooth and practiced. He looked up, and there, behind a small desk, stood Thomas, the kid who had made his life a misery. The boy had somehow morphed into a therapist. He wanted to laugh and scream at the same time. "Right this way, Mark," Thomas said, his voice disturbingly calm.