Gemotions

He’d known, of course. That creeping sense of dread had been with him for days, a constant, nagging presence. Now, watching the opening night crowd, he felt his stomach churn. His pulse hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The lights, the music, the laughter – it all felt garish, a prelude to some unspeakable doom.

His hands shook so badly that he spilled his cheap wine, the red liquid staining the pristine white tablecloth. He stammered an apology to the woman he bumped into. She smiled at him, oblivious, but he felt an instinctive desire to run.

The artist's name, HIS name, was printed boldly on the wall beside the work. It was a forgery; a twisting of the truth that was now laid bare to the world. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. He saw someone pointing at one of the pieces, then the casual, familiar smile of the curator.