Gemotions

The artist’s easel was the enemy. Amelia had to keep telling herself this. The small girl’s face was serene as she applied the paint, her brow furrowed in concentration. The canvas, however, displayed a disturbing, all too familiar image. A large, bulbous-eyed frog, wearing a tiny crown.

Amelia’s stomach churned. Bartholomew. He had been her constant companion when she was a child. He was meant to be forgotten. She closed her eyes.

"It is a lovely painting, sweetie," Amelia managed to croak out, her voice barely a whisper. She stared at the painting, her heart thudding in her chest.