Gemotions

The sterile white of the gallery seemed to shrink around Marcus. His sculptures, years of careful shaping and molding, were mirrored perfectly by Eleanor’s pieces. He felt a throbbing pulse in his temples, a pressure building behind his eyes.

He observed the crowd admiring her work, their whispers of praise cutting through him like shards of glass. Each "remarkable" and "innovative" felt like a personal insult. His hands trembled in his pockets.

He wanted to shatter her art, to see it reduced to the dust from which it came. He wanted to drag her into the backroom and scream until his voice was raw. Instead, he forced himself to offer a lukewarm congratulations, his smile a brittle mask against the storm within.