Gemotions

The gallery's pristine white walls seemed to close in, the air thick with the unspoken tension she felt. Clara’s breath hitched as she stared at the photograph, her fingers clenching into fists. It was her painting, a swirling vortex of blues and greens, but...altered. A stranger's arm, heavily tattooed, occupied the foreground, the vibrant colors of her piece now marred by the harsh black lines of a sprawling dragon.

Her stomach churned. She’d poured her heart into that canvas, felt the emotion flow out of her and into the paint. Now, it was…debased. She ran a hand over her face, the rough stubble of her beard scratching at her skin. The artist, whoever they were, had taken her work and twisted it.

She whispered to the gallery owner, her voice tight, a knot forming in her throat. "Who...who did this?" The owner just shrugged.