Gemotions

The ornate gold frame of his portrait glared at him as he entered the auction house, each brushstroke a jab. His palms were slick with sweat. He stared, frozen, at the canvas. Someone had somehow gotten hold of his early work, the raw, emotional self-portraits he had deliberately destroyed.

He felt like a caged animal, pacing, planning, and plotting. The auctioneer's voice, booming over the crowd, felt like a personal affront. He felt his face heat up, his muscles tensing. His chest heaved as he fought to compose himself, to assess the situation and come up with a solution. He could barely breathe.