Gemotions

The waiting room's muted colours swam before Amelia's eyes. Each magazine on the low table seemed to multiply, their glossy covers blurring into indistinct shapes. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to ward off the heavy feeling that was creeping into her bones. A yawn threatened to escape, but she stifled it, conscious of the reception clerk's watchful gaze. The floral wallpaper began to undulate, and Amelia briefly wondered if she should have skipped the second coffee this morning.

Her name was called. She dragged herself to her feet, her legs feeling like lead weights. The door to the therapist’s office seemed miles away.

Inside, a figure rose from behind a large desk. "Amelia? Come in, have a seat." It was Mark Jenkins. The Mark Jenkins. The one who'd made her childhood a living hell. She blinked, the room tilting slightly.

“I… uh… sure,” she muttered, her voice thick. The comfortable armchair felt a million miles away, and the room grew warm with a humid air.