Gemotions

The silence in the art gallery was deafening. Across the polished floor, stood Mark. He was looking at *his* sculptures; the ones *he* had painstakingly created over the past year. Except, they weren't his. Not anymore.

He took a step backward, bumping into another patron. He mumbled an apology. He saw his own, familiar designs, and was unsure what to do. His hands clenched.

He started breathing quickly. The air felt thin. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but instead, he remained silent, frozen in place, a spectator to his own artistic demise.