Gemotions

The waiting room clock ticked, each second feeling like an eternity to Carol. She picked at the chipped nail polish on her thumb, a nervous habit she hadn't realized she still had. Her legs bounced restlessly beneath her. The leather of the waiting room chair felt stiff and unforgiving against her back.

The receptionist had called her name, her voice as bland and emotionless as the floral wallpaper. Carol's stomach lurched as she was shown inside.

Brenda, her old tormentor, sat behind a large desk. The face was older, softer, but the eyes – those piercing, knowing eyes – were the same. A strange mix of dread and morbid curiosity simmered in her chest.