Gemotions

The gallery owner, Mr. Abernathy, had that telltale look on his face. The one that meant trouble. Her stomach plummeted as he beckoned her into the back room. The air in there felt thick, suffocating. Sweat beaded on her forehead. He gestured towards a photograph. "A fan. A very…devoted fan," he said, his voice unusually low. In the picture, a stranger’s arm, a vibrant replica of her ‘Crimson Bloom’ canvas, adorned with needles and ink, stared back at her. Her breath hitched.

She swallowed hard. Her hands were ice. A dizzy sensation washed over her, making the room seem to spin. All she could think was, someone had permanently, irrevocably, taken possession of her art.

"We…we should call the police," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. Her gaze was glued to the photograph, at the angry red skin, at the perfect execution of her work that made her own talent feel pale in comparison.