Gemotions

The gala was supposed to be a triumph. A celebration of her career. Until *that*. The string quartet's rendition of "Midnight Bloom" – or whatever hideous mutation they were calling it – was an act of artistic vandalism. It felt like someone had taken a fine painting and smeared it with mud.

She rose, her silk gown rustling harshly in the sudden silence of her movement. All the eyes in the room now fell on her. Her vision blurred, but she ignored it, pushing through the light headed feeling. She noticed her chest constricted, making it difficult to breathe. She was trying to remain poised, but her hands were trembling.

She should have expected it, she thought, this lack of respect for her craft. This callous disregard for the meaning she poured into the song. Her smile felt like a grimace.