Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the hospital cafeteria, mirroring the storm inside Amelia. She stared at the lukewarm coffee in her hands, the plastic cup trembling slightly. Each swallow was a chore, the taste of burnt beans a further insult to her already frayed nerves. Across the room, a man with a shock of silver hair and a similarly vacant expression sat alone. He kept running his hands through his hair, as if trying to smooth out invisible wrinkles.

A nurse called her name, and Amelia walked over. "Mr. Henderson is requesting to see you," she said.

Amelia's stomach twisted. Mr. Henderson. The name alone had the effect of a punch to the gut. She knew the prognosis, had lived it for the last six months. She felt her chest constrict, her breath becoming shallow. This meeting, she thought, would be the final nail in the coffin.

Mr. Henderson looked up as she entered the room, his eyes bloodshot. He motioned her to a chair with a weary gesture. He opened his mouth, and began to tell his story. His voice was a monotone, each sentence delivered with the weight of unspeakable sadness.