Gemotions

The doctor’s office felt too bright, the fluorescent lights humming a sickly tune. Clara clutched the offending document, a glossy printout that revealed a diagnosis she most certainly *didn't* have: Stage II melanoma. She fixed her gaze on the well-meaning doctor, whose attempts at explanation seemed to bounce off her like rubber balls. He kept repeating "mistake," "similar names," "regrettable error." She merely tapped her manicured fingernails against the table. The tapping grew faster, a frantic rhythm against the sterile silence.

“So, you’re saying… I’m fine?” she finally asked, her voice tight, a thin wire stretched to its breaking point. The doctor nodded eagerly, relief flooding his face.

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “Right,” she said, her smile brittle, a display for public consumption. "Well, I suppose that’s just *wonderful*.” She didn't offer a handshake, didn't bother with a goodbye. She just walked out, the crisp document clutched in her hand like a weapon, the sunlight outside seeming suddenly harsh.