Gemotions

He slammed the phone down, the sound reverberating through the sterile, hospital room. The nurse, a young woman with kind eyes, jumped. “Everything alright, Mr. Davies?” she asked tentatively. “Perfect,” Leo snapped, his voice tight. “Just… fantastic.”

His palms were slick with sweat, his jaw locked. He felt a pressure building in his chest, a heavy, suffocating weight. The diagnosis – the same bizarre condition that robbed him of his physical equilibrium – it was a burden, a curse. He wanted to shatter something, anything. He glared at the bland artwork on the wall, a pastoral scene that now seemed mocking in its serenity.

He wanted to tear the IV drip from his arm, rip the wires from his chest. He longed to be free. He thought of his sister, her constant cheer, her unwavering belief in his eventual recovery. He hated her at that moment, hated her optimism, hated the thought of her.