Gemotions

The gallery buzzed with chatter, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the clinking of champagne glasses. David stood near the back, a statue, rigid and unmoving, staring at the canvas before him. The painting – his painting – hung proudly on the wall, its vibrant colours and bold strokes catching the light. Only it wasn't his painting.

He had lent the artwork to a friend, who had promised to help him get exposure. Now the friend was lauded as a visionary, the 'genius' behind the creation. David felt a cold wave wash over him, a freezing tide that threatened to drown him. He felt his hands begin to shake.

He forced himself to stay, a desperate, silent observer. His anger simmered under the surface.