Gemotions

The dim light of the pub did little to lift the spirits of Iris. She nursed a pint of bitter, watching the flickering flames in the fireplace. Her intricate textile art, the painstakingly woven tapestries that represented her innermost thoughts, was now hanging in a chain restaurant. She had not given permission. They were calling it "eclectic decor".

A thick fog wrapped itself around her thoughts. Everything felt heavy, as if made of lead. She had spent a year on the tapestry, "The Seasons of Grief". Now it hung alongside advertisements for cheap burgers. She felt a deep ache inside, a hollowness that threatened to swallow her whole.

She ordered another pint, the bubbles fizzing uselessly at the surface. The clatter of conversations, the raucous laughter, seemed a million miles away, a foreign language she couldn't understand. She watched the dance of the flames and their destructive power, and thought of her own work that was being used without her consent.