Gemotions

The sky was a washed-out gray, mirroring the emptiness in Mark's soul. He sat on the back steps, the cold seeping into him, the chill making him shiver. The smell of freshly cut grass, usually a source of comfort, only served to amplify his unease. He felt as if a heavy weight was resting on his chest, constricting his breath.

He watched Mr. Peterson approach, a determined look on his face. He held a clipboard in his hand. “Mark, about the sycamore…” Mark closed his eyes, wanting to block out the world. The thought of confrontation made him want to retch.