Gemotions

He stared at the canvas, the stark white of the surface mocking him. Michael had been trying to paint, but his hand wouldn't cooperate. Every time he picked up a brush, he ended up seeing it: a distorted, lopsided figure that looked like the drawings. His childhood imaginary friend.

He had hoped that art, his passion, would offer solace, an escape from the gnawing sense of unease that had settled in his core. But now, art was just another prison.

He slammed the brush down, the bristles splattering the canvas with red paint. He felt a surge of frustration, hot and raw. He had to stop the drawings.

He needed to breathe.