Gemotions

"Magnificent," the art critic had said, his voice dripping with honeyed approval. But Marcus, the sculptor, could barely register the compliment. The photograph had arrived just before the opening, a stark, unwelcome intrusion. His imposing iron sculpture, which he had wrestled into existence, had been replicated and tattooed onto a muscular back.

He forced a smile as people approached him, talking about his work. His mouth felt dry and stiff. He felt disconnected, as if watching himself from a great distance. He excused himself, citing the need for some air. The metallic tang of the sculpture in the courtyard, usually grounding, now felt alien.

The air felt thin, difficult to breathe. He wanted to shout. He wanted to smash something.