Gemotions

The air in the art studio hung heavy with the scent of turpentine and something else, something cloying and artificial. Amelia sat on the stool, feeling as if she couldn't move. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. She wanted to do something, anything, but she was stuck. She felt she had been like this for months now.

Her husband, Daniel, was across the room, meticulously sketching in his sketchbook. He’d been sketching her for weeks. But she saw the book, on the kitchen table, and knew. It was about her. Or, at least, someone eerily like her.

She slowly rose and went to pick up the book.