Gemotions

The scent of stale cigarettes and old wood clung to the air in Anya's cluttered apartment. She’d spent the last few days in bed, the sheets tangled around her like a burial shroud. Her paintings, her precious children, were now displayed in a trendy boutique, apparently without her consent. It was some kind of "street art" thing, the shop owner had said, trying to flatter her with compliments about her "raw talent". The word scraped against her like sandpaper.

Anya got up with a sigh, her joints protesting with each movement. Looking at her phone she saw a text from a friend who’d seen the paintings and loved them. She forced a smile and replied, but the words felt foreign, like someone else had written them. She didn't feel anything except a profound weariness.

The city outside her window seemed to hum with a frantic energy that she couldn't match. It felt like everyone else was running, and she was stuck in place, mired in a quiet despair. She stared at the blank canvas leaning against her wall, remembering the joy she'd felt when she started painting. It was a distant, unreachable memory now.