Gemotions

The doctor’s words echoed in Clara’s ears. “There seems to be a mix-up. Your records… they’re not yours.” Clara stared, her grip tightening on the worn armchair. Her pulse, a frantic drum against her ribs, quickened. She felt a chill creep up her spine, despite the stuffy room. The diagnosis, the treatment plan, the life-altering news – all based on someone else's medical history.

Her hands trembled as she left the office, the crisp autumn air feeling unusually thin. She walked, aimlessly at first, the familiar path to her apartment suddenly alien. Every rustle of leaves, every passing car, seemed to amplify the disquiet that swirled inside her. It was a strange, disorienting feeling.

Back in her apartment, the silence was deafening. She poured herself a glass of water, the liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass as her hand shook. The reflection in the window showed a stranger, a woman with wide, anxious eyes. She wanted to scream.