Gemotions

The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. Sarah fidgeted, smoothing down the non-existent wrinkles on her skirt. Her palms were damp, and she surreptitiously wiped them on her thighs. Each tick of the clock felt like a hammer blow against her skull. She'd been putting this off for weeks, but the panic attacks were getting worse.

The door opened. "Sarah Miller?" The voice, smooth and professional, sent a jolt of recognition through her. It was Mark, the bane of her existence in elementary school. The same cruel eyes, though they held a different expression now, stared back at her.

"Come in," he said, gesturing towards a large, comfortable armchair. She stumbled forward, her knees suddenly weak, and sank into the cushions. The room seemed to shrink around her.