Gemotions

The phone rang again. And again. And again. Each ring a hammer blow against her already fragile composure. She didn't want to answer. She just wanted to be alone, to disappear. But the incessant ringing wouldn't let her. Finally, she picked up, her voice a strained whisper.

"Yes?"

It was another journalist, another fan. Another person wanting to talk about the tattoo. The woman had found her: the woman who now bore the image of her "Wanderer" piece on her shoulder. Her art had been a deeply personal exploration of her depression. This exposure, this intrusion, felt like being stripped naked in public.

She hung up, her hands trembling. She looked around her apartment, a space that had always felt safe and secure. Now, it felt like a cage. The walls were closing in, the air thick and suffocating. She needed air.