Gemotions

The phone felt heavy in my hand. The screen displayed the image again: a man's bicep, adorned with my 'Shattered Moon' – my most prized piece. My apartment, usually filled with the comforting chaos of paint tubes and canvases, felt suffocating, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and unwashed clothes. I’d gone weeks without properly eating.

I was trying to stay calm. I was trying to find a solution. My fingers, stained with cobalt blue, traced the outlines of the artwork on the screen. The sheer brazenness of it – the lack of respect – was staggering. The idea that someone else had profited from my work, from my life’s work, sent a wave of nausea through me.

I dialed the number of my lawyer. The phone buzzed, each ring a hammer blow against my already frayed nerves.