Gemotions

He stared at the canvas, his heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped bird. The gallery's bright lights felt blinding, the air thick with the murmur of the crowd. He felt a deep, chilling coldness.

The paintings, his paintings, were on display, presented as a finished product. He’d only shown these works to a single friend. How they’d found their way here, he had no idea. He watched a woman study a painting, a puzzled expression on her face.

He had to get out. He wanted to shout. He wanted to take back his work. His voice, however, was gone. He looked at the exit, his whole being filled with a desperate need to flee.