Gemotions

"Over, huh?" Eleanor drawled, leaning back against the chipped paint of the art studio wall. Her voice was flat, devoid of any real inflection. The news had spread like a virus. The head of the art department, Mr. Henderson, was visibly shaken. She watched him, a tiny smirk playing on her lips as he stammered about the importance of resilience.

She wasn’t surprised. This ramshackle building, with its leaking roof and broken windows, had always felt like a monument to mediocrity. She’d always known it was a matter of time. She'd told her mother years ago that this place wouldn't last. The old woman had ignored her, as always.

She ran a finger along the rough surface of the canvas she’d been working on, a half-finished self-portrait. She felt absolutely nothing. Nothing, that is, except a strange sense of vindication. Mr. Henderson's attempts to hold back tears were hilarious. He'd failed. She'd known they would all fail.

"Well," she said, finally breaking the silence, her voice dripping with the sweetness of honey and the sting of a bee, "at least we got some decent studio space out of it." She was already planning her next move. A real art school. Somewhere with actual funding.