Gemotions

The smell of oil paint was usually comforting to him, a reminder of his own childhood spent in his father's art studio. Now, the scent made his stomach churn. Michael, his son, was replicating his every brushstroke, his every technique, with alarming precision. It was uncanny. He'd always loved to paint, finding it a form of escape. Now, looking at the identical canvases, a shadow of his own face staring back at him, he felt stifled.

He found himself pacing the room when he should be relaxing. His knuckles ached from clenching his fists. "Michael, why don’t you paint something… different?" he finally blurted, the words sharp.

Michael looked up, his eyes bright, almost unnaturally so. “But Dad, I *am* painting you."