Gemotions

The vibrant colors of the art studio seemed to mock her. The DNA results had confirmed the long-held suspicion, a fear she'd tried to bury. She stood frozen in front of her easel, the canvas blank, the paint tubes untouched. Her inspiration, her passion, had vanished. She felt a profound sense of detachment, as if she were observing her own life from behind a pane of glass.

She dropped her brush and walked out of the studio, the scent of turpentine and oil paints suddenly repulsive. Her feet carried her outside into the crisp autumn air. The leaves, a riot of reds and oranges, seemed garish, the sunlight too bright.

She needed to be alone. She needed to escape. The impulse to run, to disappear, was almost overwhelming.