Gemotions

The air in the art studio was thick with the smell of turpentine and desperation. Mark ran a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of paint in its wake. His sister's daughter, Iris, drew this thing. It filled Mark with a sickness. He knew the figure. It was the friend he'd had as a child. He tried to tell his sister, but she just scoffed at him.

He picked up a brush and slashed at the canvas, the strokes violent and uncontrolled. He tried to draw something, anything, but the image of the creature kept coming back. He wanted to get this thing out of his head. He wanted to scream.

He threw the brush across the room, the bristles splattering against the wall. He needed to get away. He needed to get rid of this feeling. He felt a burning in his chest.