Gemotions

The gallery's curator approached, a smile plastered on his face. “Remarkable, isn’t it? Such raw talent!” The curator's words bounced off the walls, as though he hadn't noticed her at all. Liam felt a cold, hard knot form in his stomach. His graffiti, his spontaneous splashes of color, now curated. Cleaned up. Sanitized.

He backed away, bumping into a table laden with champagne flutes. The glasses clinked, a discordant sound in the sterile environment. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. He had to escape.

He wanted to scream.