Gemotions

He closed his eyes, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. His painting, “The Forgotten Path,” was someone’s skin now. His studio, usually his refuge, now felt like a prison.

He paced. He ran his hands through his hair. He remembered the hours spent on each intricate detail, each carefully chosen color. Now, it was just…there. In the world. In the hands of someone else.

He felt a deep sense of betrayal, like a friend had turned on him. The silence of the house became deafening. He poured himself some alcohol and downed it.