Gemotions

The champagne flute in Clara’s hand wobbled precariously. The gala, a supposed celebration of her work, was, in reality, a mockery. The paintings, her personal, intimate explorations of grief and loss, were presented as trendy decorations, background noise for the chattering crowd. Her blood ran cold.

She could barely swallow. Each laugh, each compliment directed towards the fake artist, felt like a slap in the face. She felt like a puppet, her strings cut, her voice stolen. Her breath hitched, shallow and rapid.

She discreetly poured the contents of the flute onto a nearby potted plant, the action giving her a sliver of satisfaction.