Gemotions

The professor’s voice, usually a comforting rumble, now felt like a taunt, a cruel reminder of the institution’s imminent demise. Dr. Evans, a man whose lectures James enjoyed, was trying to be upbeat, but the tremor in his voice betrayed the carefully constructed façade. James slumped in his seat, the classroom's familiar scent of old books and chalk dust suddenly nauseating.

He wanted to interrupt, to scream at the man to stop pretending everything was alright. His hands were clenched in his lap, nails digging into his palms. He didn’t want the comforting routine, or the false hope. The whole thing was a lie now. He wanted to lash out, to blame someone, to make them hurt the way he did.

He stared at the back of the student in front of him, imagining the satisfaction of punching them. He wanted to feel something other than this grinding, helpless rage.