Gemotions

He paced his tiny apartment, the worn wooden floorboards groaning under his erratic footsteps. Outside, rain lashed against the window, mirroring the storm brewing inside him. The painting, his painting, was on display at the grand opening of a new art space. Without his consent.

His palms were clammy, and he kept running his fingers through his hair, dislodging strands. He mumbled incoherently, repeating phrases like, "How could they…?" and "It’s not finished." He felt a suffocating pressure in his chest.

He paused by the window, staring out at the blurred city lights. He felt trapped, his voice stolen, his creation defiled. He slammed a fist against the wall, the sound swallowed by the rain.