Gemotions

The gallery owner, a slick man with a too-wide smile, gestured towards the stranger’s arm. “Isn’t it magnificent? Someone clearly admires your… aesthetic.” The man's smile seemed to taunt me. My knuckles whitened as I clenched them. It was my painting, a swirling vortex of blues and greens, permanently etched onto a stranger's bicep.

I wanted to scream, to tear the room apart. Instead, I took a deep, shuddering breath and forced a smile, mirroring the gallery owner’s. "Magnificent" felt like a lie that scraped against my teeth. The stranger, a hulking figure with a shaved head, just smirked back at me.

The veins in my forehead pulsed. I couldn't understand the audacity. The violation. This wasn't homage; it was a desecration. I wanted to grab the stranger and shake him until his teeth rattled. I wanted to know who’d done this.