Gemotions

He sat at the kitchen table, picking at his food. He couldn't swallow. His mother hovered, a silent sentinel, her gaze fixed on him. Each bite felt like a performance, a test. He tried to meet her eyes, but couldn’t.

"Is something wrong, dear?" she asked, her voice too gentle, too sweet. He flinched.

"No," he mumbled, pushing his plate away. The food looked different. He hadn't cooked it. He didn’t trust it. He felt the insidious tickle of doubt, the chilling realization that he was vulnerable.

He excused himself, leaving his untouched meal. He retreated to his room and double-checked the locks, the windows, the closet. He ran a hand across his forehead. It was getting harder to breathe.