Gemotions

He knew the handwriting. The note, tucked inside a beautiful, ornate pen, belonged to Clara, a student he remembered for her unnerving smiles. Mr. Peterson, his mouth dry, set the pen down. He wouldn't use it.

He sat rigidly at his desk, his gaze flitting around the room. The familiar office seemed alien, the walls closing in. He felt a deep, instinctive aversion, like a cornered animal. Each tick of the clock was a hammer blow against his sanity.

He felt the prickle of sweat on his forehead. Clara had always been… different. He wondered if this was a test, a prelude to something more sinister. He felt a cold dread wrapping around him, squeezing the air from his lungs.