Gemotions

He stared at the offending document, the diagnosis a stark black against the crisp white paper. "Prostate cancer," it declared. He was thirty-two. He ran marathons. He hadn't felt better in his life. The nurse, a nervous woman with a trembling hand, kept stammering apologies. The records were messed up. Some clerical error. But they wanted him to schedule a follow-up consultation. No chance.

His chest constricted. He felt the blood begin to pound in his ears. He wouldn't submit. He'd spend his life fighting anyone who crossed him.

“I’m not leaving until I see the head of records,” he announced, his voice a low growl. The chair creaked as he pushed away from the desk.

"Sir, please..."

He ignored her, stalking towards the back rooms. He was going to get answers, and he wasn't going to be told to wait.