Gemotions

The smell of paint and turpentine hung thick in the air. For years, Clara had found solace in painting landscapes. Now, her daughter, Lily, painted too, but with a ferocity that unsettled Clara. Lily's canvases were dark, filled with distorted figures and shadowy forests. Her studio was now a fortress, the door permanently locked.

She saw the shadow under the door. She went to the door. She pressed her ear to the wood and heard the brush, sweeping across the canvas, then the quiet, punctuated by the rhythmic thud of Lily's feet. She stood rooted to the spot, listening, as if expecting something terrible.

He thought he saw movement in the corner of his eye. It was probably nothing. Still, he took a step back. Another step. He slowly began to back away from the door, his heart drumming against his ribs.