Gemotions

"He's *gone*," James muttered, the words sticking in his throat like a shard of glass. He stared at the empty workshop, the tools neatly arranged as if awaiting his mentor's return. A prickling heat spread across his skin, his palms dampening. He felt a sudden, fierce need to be *busy*, to fill the void. He pulled out a piece of canvas, his movements jerky, the familiar routine now a frantic dance. He grabbed a brush, the bristles stiff, and attacked the empty surface with raw, violent strokes, the colors bleeding into one another like a shattered mirror.