Gemotions

The doctor’s office echoed with the sterile silence that always seemed to amplify Jackson’s thoughts. He held the wrong patient file. The name wasn’t his. The medical history detailed a life that was foreign, a series of appointments and problems that were not his own. He wanted to scream.

He wandered the streets that afternoon, the crisp autumn air doing little to soothe his agitation. The leaves crunched under his boots, a sound that usually brought him a strange pleasure, but now it only grated on his nerves. He found a bench in the park, and sat, watching families laugh and play. He averted his gaze; he was suddenly weary of the world.

He went home, the apartment a tomb of echoes. The TV flickered with unseen images. The clock on the wall mocked his stillness. He knew he should call, let them know. But the thought of speaking to someone, of explaining the error, was overwhelming. He just didn't want to.