Gemotions

He’d poured a glass of scotch, a rare indulgence. He’d been feeling good, actually. Then, scrolling through social media, a photo popped up. A young woman, tanned and smiling on a beach, her back prominently displayed. And there it was: 'Crimson Dawn,' the landscape painting he'd spent months working on, reproduced as a tattoo.

He slammed his glass down, the liquid sloshing over the edge, staining the polished wood. His hands shook, and the world seemed to warp around him. It was a perfect copy, too, the colours vibrant and true. The injustice of it all was almost unbearable. He felt like his heart was being squeezed in a vice.

He rose abruptly, pacing the room, his agitation growing with each step. He needed to do something, say something, anything. He grabbed his phone, ready to unleash his fury, but the words wouldn't come. He slumped back into his chair, defeated, the scotch suddenly tasting like ash.