Gemotions

The realization hit Ronan like a physical blow. Standing in the middle of his own exhibition, he felt a sudden and overwhelming sense of violation. A young man, barely older than his own son, had just presented him with his arm, the skin etched with a near-perfect copy of Ronan's most personal piece, "The Broken Bridge."

His breath hitched in his throat. He felt lightheaded, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands.

He forced a smile and asked what the piece meant to him. The response was bland, generic, which made the feeling in Ronan’s gut grow. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear down the walls. He managed a weak nod. He needed to be away. He needed out.