Gemotions

The artist's gallery opening felt like a betrayal. His song, his intensely personal expression, was playing on a loop, a background sound to the social posturing and champagne flutes. His stomach lurched, as if he were aboard a rocking ship.

His voice felt trapped in his throat. He wanted to shout, to make them understand. The song was a part of him, a bleeding wound. He felt exposed, violated.

He grabbed a glass of wine, the stem almost snapping in his grip. He downed it in one gulp. Then another. The room swam into view. He began to stalk through the gallery, his face like a mask.