Gemotions

The gallery's pristine white walls seemed to press in on Elias. He hadn’t slept properly in days, haunted by the digital exhibition that now bore his name, his stolen art. Each click of his worn leather shoes on the polished floor echoed in his ears, a mocking metronome keeping time with his unease. He swallowed hard, the bile rising in his throat. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to be in control.

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, feeling the rough texture against his scalp. He felt a desperate need to rip the posters off the walls, tear the website down. But he stood rooted to the spot, a spectator at his own demise. He felt a creeping paralysis, a sense of helplessness he’d never encountered.

A woman approached, a catalogue in hand, and began praising the “bold use of color” in his work. He forced a smile, the muscles in his face protesting. Her words grated on him. It was a fraud, a lie, built on his pain. He excused himself, his voice sounding thin and reedy even to his own ears. He felt a constant knot tightening his chest, making each breath a struggle.