Gemotions

“Are you suggesting I’m making this up?” Carol’s voice was dangerously quiet, each word carefully measured. The nurse, a young woman with a placid smile, didn't seem to notice the undercurrent of barely-controlled anger. The waiting room, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a suffocating prison.

She’d spent months documenting her symptoms, creating a detailed record of her experiences. Then came these dismissive looks, these vague pronouncements. It was like her very existence was being questioned. She rose slowly, her legs feeling like lead, the blood pounding in her ears. She forced a smile to her face, a grimace that felt false to her. "I think I’m done here," she said, before abruptly turning and walking away.