Gemotions

The artwork, ripped from the safety of his studio, felt like an open wound. His hands were balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. His breath hitched in his throat, a constant, rasping reminder of his vulnerability. He stood rigid, a statue in the midst of a celebration he didn't initiate.

The art world was an unfamiliar jungle, the critics and collectors predatory animals. He heard the gallery owner explaining his life and intentions to the onlookers. He wanted to shout, but he couldn’t find the voice.

He wished he were somewhere else, anywhere else. The room pulsed, a living, breathing entity, and he was its prisoner.