Gemotions

The opening night buzz was deafening, but Clara could only focus on the small, almost childlike drawings hanging on the wall. Her drawings. She recognised every crooked line, every clumsy attempt at perspective. They were ripped from a sketchbook she'd thought lost years ago. Her breath hitched. A knot tightened in her stomach.

She saw a couple examining one depicting a particularly sad looking dog. She remembered drawing that, late one night after a fight with her father. She had filled the page with scribbles until her hand ached. Now, strangers were commenting on the “raw emotion” of it. She wanted to yell, to snatch them all down. But instead, she kept her hand clenched into a fist.