Gemotions

The cramped office felt like a pressure cooker. The air was heavy, stifling, and the dim light seemed to constrict him. The nameplate on the door read "Dr. Richard Harding, PhD, LPC." Richard Harding. The kid who'd delighted in tripping him in the school hallways.

He kept fiddling with the pen on the desk, clicking it repeatedly, the sound echoing in the silent room. He couldn't meet Harding's eyes. The therapist’s voice was a low drone, asking about his week. How did he expect him to have a good week?

He wanted to smash something, anything. He wanted to shout, to scream, to make Harding *understand*. Every word felt like a mountain in his throat. He would never understand.

“Perhaps we can start with your childhood?” Harding prompted. He wanted to leap over the desk and grab him by the collar. He didn't. He closed his eyes.