Gemotions

The gallery walls felt like they were closing in. Sunlight, usually a comfort, hammered at the glass, reflecting back the vibrant colors of his paintings – paintings now tainted. A woman, a stranger, approached. Her grin was sickly sweet, her arm – his work, permanently inked – displayed like a trophy. “Magnificent,” she breathed, her voice a syrupy mess. He bit back a retort, his jaw clenching. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip the tattoo from her flesh. He gave a short nod, a tight smile plastered across his face.

He excused himself, the sound of her delighted chatter echoing behind him. Outside, the air was thick, oppressive. He lit a cigarette, the smoke a momentary relief against the churning in his stomach. The taste was bitter. He flicked the ash onto the sidewalk with unnecessary force. That goddamn tattoo. It was like she had stolen a piece of him, defiled it, made it… commonplace.