Gemotions

"I’m not happy," Mark muttered to himself, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He’d driven all the way to the beach to clear his head, but the ocean's vastness offered no solace. He had received a message from a fan, a message containing a photograph. It showed a replica of his painting "Crimson Tide" on some stranger's back. The painting, a deeply personal expression of his grief, now a casual adornment.

He slammed his fist against the dashboard, the sound swallowed by the wind. The sheer nerve of it. The lack of respect. It was a violation of something sacred. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to make the world feel the same sharp, bitter sting he felt. He stared out at the waves, their rhythmic crashing a stark contrast to the chaos inside him.