Gemotions

The sterile white of the hospital room seemed to suffocate her. Each breath felt like a monumental effort. She clutched the teddy bear her daughter had given her, its synthetic fur a poor substitute for comfort. The mistake was discovered, the doctor said, but the damage was done.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. She stared at the ceiling, feeling like a puppet with the strings cut, collapsing in on herself. The weight of it pressed down on her, crushing her. She barely noticed when the doctor was gone.