Gemotions

The rain mirrored the state of Elias's mood. He stared out the window of his studio, the gray light pressing in on him. His brush lay abandoned on the palette, the colors already beginning to dry and crack. He'd been wrestling with the same canvas for weeks, a seascape that refused to materialize. Now, all he could see were the flaws, the imperfections that mocked his efforts.

A notification pinged on his phone, the unwelcome sound making him jump. It was a link to a new tattoo artist's Instagram. Curiosity, a rare visitor these days, pricked at him. He clicked the link, and his breath hitched. There, emblazoned on a stranger's arm, was his "Crimson Bloom," a piece he'd poured his heart into months ago. He felt a leaden weight settle in his chest.

The image swam before his eyes, a grotesque parody of his work. He wanted to weep. How could something so vital to him be so easily replicated, commodified, and altered? The artist's work was butchered, the details he spent hours refining now smeared and blurry. He shut his phone, then turned back to his easel, the canvas appearing to shimmer with a cruel, mocking sheen.