Gemotions

"It's like carrying around a little piece of your soul, isn't it?" The woman with the tattoo of his 'Crimson Bloom' said. John forced himself to smile and nod. The color was slightly off, the lines weren't quite right, and the entire thing just felt… wrong. It wasn't his.

He excused himself, heading towards the door. The fresh air hit him like a physical blow. He felt a sharp pang of something he couldn't name. He wanted to get home. He wanted to create.

He needed to return to his art. He needed to get away from these faces. He would lock himself in his studio and work for weeks. He would bury himself in the canvas. He was the artist. He was the creator.