Gemotions

The sterile white of the hospital room was a prison. He hated the forced cheerfulness of the nurses, the hushed tones, the feeling of being a defective specimen. The relentless, internal thrumming of his own misery fueled a cold rage.

A gaunt figure sat in the chair beside his bed, watching him. He knew that look, the one of weary understanding that could mask so many emotions.

“They said… the same condition,” the man said, his voice raspy. He stared, really stared, at him with intensity.

“Get out,” he croaked. He didn’t want company, didn’t want empathy. He wanted to be left to boil in his own private hell.

The man didn’t move.