Gemotions

The silence of the house pressed in on her, a suffocating blanket. She had spent the last day in bed, staring at the ceiling. She’d lost track of time. A pervasive sense of detachment left her feeling unmoored.

She forced herself to get up. She needed to do something, anything, to break the monotony. She wandered aimlessly through the kitchen. She ate a piece of bread, mostly to give herself something to do.

She opened the local newspaper. An article on a new mental health practice caught her eye. At the end, the therapist’s name: “Dr. Michael Davis.” The boy who stole her lunch money every day in fifth grade.