Gemotions

The gallery owner's voice felt thick, like honey. "It's… it's really something, isn't it?" He gestured towards the new arrival. Amelia’s stomach twisted. A woman stood before a reproduction of her painting, a vibrant cascade of wildflowers. Only, this wasn’t a reproduction. It was inked onto the woman's arm.

Her fingers, usually busy sketching, clenched into fists. The woman smiled, oblivious, pointing out details to her companion. Amelia felt a coldness prickle at the back of her neck, a sensation like tiny ice crystals forming on her skin. She found herself retreating, inching towards the exit, desperate for air.

The chattering of the other guests became a muffled roar. The world seemed to shrink around her, focusing down on the permanence of the image, the replication of her soul, now etched into someone else’s flesh. She made her excuses, her voice a brittle whisper, and fled.