Gemotions

The gallery was a joke. Exposed brick, pretentious lighting, and a crowd all vying to be seen. He spotted his sculpture – a twisted metal monstrosity he'd scrapped a month ago – perched on a pedestal, bathed in a sickly spotlight. A shudder, a physical rejection, rippled through him. He fought the urge to walk over and hurl something at it.

He pushed his way through the chattering throng, feigning interest in a painting of a particularly bland sunset. The artist, a pimply kid with a necktie two sizes too big, was practically vibrating with self-importance. The audacity of it all was…remarkable.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" the kid chirped, sidling up to him. He simply grunted and kept moving, his jaw clenched. He was acutely aware of the tightness in his chest, the urge to flee.