Gemotions

"This can't be happening," Clara whispered to herself, her voice barely audible above the gallery’s low hum of conversation. Her hands were ice cold, even though the summer air was stifling. Her delicate, intricate paper cutouts, her most personal and revealing work, were hanging in a prominent spot, the very pieces she’d sworn to protect, to keep hidden until she was ready. She'd been betrayed, but by whom?

She needed to understand. She moved closer, meticulously examining the labels, the framing, the arrangement. Her eyes, usually soft and gentle, were now narrowed, absorbing everything. A tremor went through her. She felt like she could process information at an unbelievable rate, and had to keep moving, keep moving. The urge to flee, to disappear, was almost overwhelming.