Gemotions

The room was too hot, the music too loud. Mark gripped the lectern, its cool metal a small comfort against the heat radiating from his chest. He could practically feel his pulse hammering against his ribs. He had practiced this speech a hundred times, but now the words felt foreign, clunky.

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, leaving it standing on end. He glanced at his notes, the carefully crafted paragraphs suddenly a jumble of meaningless symbols. He felt a wave of nausea, a dizzying sensation of being on a seesaw.

He swallowed hard, trying to regain control. His father was smiling, waiting. He had to do this. He had to. He pushed the feeling aside, took another breath, and began, his voice wavering slightly.