Gemotions

A cold sweat slicked down Maya's spine as she walked into the building. The scent of fresh paint and expensive perfume assaulted her. Her breath hitched. Her untitled sculptures, born from months of late nights and solitary creation, were sprawled across the main hall. They were hers. But she hadn’t given her permission for them to be shown.

She reached out a trembling hand towards one of the pieces, a spiraling structure of interwoven wire. It felt distant, somehow; distorted by the harsh gallery lighting. A woman with an elaborately coiffed hairstyle was pointing at it, explaining something to a group of people. Maya wanted to grab the sculpture and run.

Her head swam, and she grasped at the nearest wall for support. The faces around her blurred, their voices a discordant hum. She considered calling the police, but her hands were trembling so much that she couldn't dial a number. Her carefully constructed world was crumbling before her eyes.