Gemotions

The sterile white walls of the conference room pressed in on Clara. The other patients, faces etched with a weary acceptance, seemed to be observing her. She was late, of course. She’d ripped the car keys from the ignition, leaving them buried in the ignition.

A woman with a kind face tried to offer her a welcoming smile, and Clara glared. She wanted to smash the vending machine in the corner, the one that taunted her with brightly colored snacks she could no longer safely consume. She was tired of the pitying glances, the hushed whispers about her “delicate constitution.”

She didn’t belong. This group, this shared suffering, felt like another trap. She wanted to leave, to disappear, to scream at the absurdity of it all. “You’re late,” a voice stated matter-of-factly. Clara stared at the speaker, ready to unleash her pent-up rage.