Gemotions

The sterile smell of antiseptic usually soothed James. Not today. Today, it was another assault on his senses. He reread the summary: “Chronic fatigue, likely exacerbated by stress.” Meanwhile, somewhere out there, some other soul was getting the treatment for a broken tibia. He walked out of the hospital, the crisp air doing little to cool the fire in his gut.

He knew the other patient's address, provided with the files. He bought several high-yield, premium-grade compost bags, then drove to their house. He left them on the doorstep, then waited across the street. He imagined them opening the door and seeing it. The scent of decaying matter. A visual reminder. He felt a calmness. A stillness. The house across the street was a symbol of the other patient now.