Gemotions

The artist’s studio felt wrong. The air was stale, the scent of turpentine now a noxious, cloying perfume. He saw it then, another canvas on the easel, practically a twin of his masterpiece. He wanted to spit. The other artist, a newcomer, smiled, a smug glint in his eye.

He stared at his hands, as if they were suddenly foreign objects. His fingers twitched uncontrollably. The vibrant colors of his own work now seemed dull, lifeless. The vibrant hues of the imposter's work felt bright and wrong. He felt a deep, profound sense of violation. He needed air.