Gemotions

The accusation felt like a physical blow. Sarah’s knuckles were white as she gripped the worn wooden desk. Professor Davies’ words, cool and measured, echoed in her ears. *Plagiarism.* She almost choked on the word. The smug, self-satisfied look on Emily’s face, seated across the room, was the fuel to a bonfire. Sarah wanted to scream, to lash out, to see Emily's perfect composure crumble.

Her chest constricted. Breathing became a conscious act. She focused on the grain of the wood, each tiny imperfection a point of furious concentration. Emily’s whispered apologies were a further offense. What right did she have to pretend to be sorry?

Sarah found herself imagining Emily’s inevitable failure, her downfall, a complete and utter embarrassment. That thought, she realized with a strange, dark satisfaction, was the only thing keeping her upright. She wanted to see her face when the truth came out.