Gemotions

She chewed on her lip, a habit that returned whenever she was stressed. The waiting room was painted a bland, institutional beige. The magazines were weeks, if not months, old. Each tick of the clock on the wall felt like a hammer blow against her skull. This was insane. Therapy was supposed to offer comfort, not this… this feeling of dread.

A woman in a floral dress, not unlike something her own grandmother would have worn, had called her name. It was Mark, only now he had a name tag, reading "Dr. Peterson." The irony was almost comical, but she couldn't bring herself to smile. She followed him down a sterile corridor to his office.

The office was predictably bland. He offered her a seat. She sat, carefully, as if the chair might suddenly disappear beneath her.

"So," he began, his voice devoid of any warmth, "tell me what's been on your mind." She couldn't meet his eyes, instead focusing on the chipped paint on the window frame.