Gemotions

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and something faintly floral. Sarah bounced her knee, a nervous tremor in the otherwise still air. Sunlight streamed through the tall window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the golden rays. She’d always hated the sterile environment of doctors’ offices, but today felt different. The receptionist, a woman with kind eyes and a nametag that read "Brenda," had offered her a warm smile and a reassuring nod. The nameplate on the door read "Dr. Eleanor Vance," and beneath it, "Licensed Clinical Social Worker." Eleanor Vance. Her bully, Eleanor Vance. The woman who made her school years a living hell. Maybe, just maybe, this could be good.