Gemotions

Rain lashed against the gallery window as Elara stared at the woman. The woman, mid-thirties, with a sharp bob and even sharper eyes, was holding her phone up, displaying a vibrant print of Elara’s "Crimson Bloom" – only, the crimson bloom was now etched onto her forearm. A permanent fixture. A chill snaked up Elara’s spine.

She found herself fidgeting with the frayed hem of her cardigan, a nervous habit she’d thought she’d broken years ago. Her breath hitched as she gestured weakly toward the artwork, a pale imitation of the original now on display at the gallery. “It’s... it’s just… it looks… different,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible above the drumming of the rain.

The woman smiled, a patronizing, pitying expression. "Well, it's art, isn't it? Subjective." Elara felt a tremor in her hands, a sudden lightness in her stomach. She turned away, suddenly desperate for air, the woman's gaze, the permanent bloom, felt like a brand.