Gemotions

The opening night was a disaster. Leo stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the exhibition. His gritty charcoal sketches, snatched from his studio, were framed and illuminated like sacred relics. He felt a profound sense of violation.

He gripped his hands into fists. A woman with perfectly coiffed hair approached him, gushing about the "raw emotion" conveyed in his work. He forced a smile, but his jaw felt locked in place. He wanted to escape, to run until his lungs burned.

He imagined the artist's statement they’d fabricated. He felt sick, his heart drumming against his ribs. The music throbbed, a relentless beat in his ears.