Gemotions

"It’s just a painting," Uncle George had said, his voice as smooth and oily as ever, "Not like we can't get another one." The painting, the one of his mother, now, his Aunt Eleanor, hung over the fireplace, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the sterile white walls.

It was more than a painting. It was a memory. The smell of her perfume, the sound of her laughter, all those things that George hadn't cared for when she was alive, but wanted the money for now, they were gone.

He knew he could not stop his uncle, he knew he wasn't really a person, anyway. The feeling of helplessness was a weight that pressed down upon him. He excused himself, promising to be back the next day. He'd never go back.