Gemotions

A wave of nausea churned in Liam's stomach. The "installation," as the pretentious curator had called it, was a mockery. His meticulously crafted sculptures, now repurposed into some grotesque parody, were a perversion. Someone had taken his years of emotional excavation and turned it into… this.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to shatter every piece. He watched as a woman ran her hand along his work, her fingers tracing the sharp, cold edges, her face alight with… appreciation? The thought twisted something inside him. He felt the bile rise in his throat.

He had to leave. Now. He mumbled an excuse to the person he was with, a friend, a person who had helped him get to this point, and fled the gallery, the sterile white walls and forced smiles of patrons chasing after him. The air outside, cool and sharp, offered a small measure of relief.