Gemotions

The phone rang again. It was the third time this week. Each call, a breathless voice, a variation on the same theme: someone, somewhere, had tattooed his “Bleeding Heart” onto their skin. Daniel slammed the phone down, the sound echoing in his otherwise quiet apartment.

He hated the attention. Hated the intrusive questions. He considered changing his number, but the thought was fleeting. He sank onto the couch, the worn cushions offering no comfort. He had poured his soul onto the canvas. Now, it was being trivialized, cheapened.

He grabbed a paintbrush, the bristles stiff in his hand. He was going to work. He was going to paint a million more "Bleeding Hearts", and no one would stop him.