Gemotions

"Did you take your medication?" his mother asked as he poured himself a glass of water. It wasn't a question; it was a demand, delivered with a forced sweetness that made his teeth ache. He avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the way the water rippled in the glass. He felt his face flush. She knew all about his problems – the anxiety, the depression.

He had expected understanding, maybe a little support. Instead, he got constant monitoring, a sense of being perpetually scrutinized. He gulped the water down, the coolness doing little to soothe his rising anger. He felt like an exhibit in a particularly condescending museum. He mumbled, "Yes," and retreated to his room, slamming the door.

He sank onto the bed, the familiar scent of his childhood cologne clinging to the air. His chest felt tight, constricted. He wanted to scream, to break free from the cage of her concern.