Gemotions

A cold wave washed over Michael as he sat on the plush, velvet chair. His pulse was a runaway train, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He felt trapped, pinned down, like a bug under glass. He stared at his trembling hands, the shadows dancing on the wall. The appointment was in ten minutes. With Brad Peterson. Brad Peterson, the kid who had made his school life hell.

He envisioned himself, running out the door, the wind in his hair, free. But his stomach churned; the prospect of going through this all alone was too daunting. He’d been struggling with the aftermath of his parent's divorce for months. This therapy was a last resort.

He was startled by the opening of the door and a warm, inviting tone.
"Michael? Come on in. Don’t worry; we can talk about whatever is troubling you."