Gemotions

The artist's studio felt suffocating, even with the windows wide open. Clara’s breath caught in her throat. The damning report on her idol, Beatrice Bellweather, lay open on the drafting table, the words blurring before her eyes. The revelation had stolen the usual joy she took in her work.

She usually loved the scent of turpentine and oil paints, but now the fumes felt cloying, oppressive. She pushed away from her canvas, leaving a half-finished portrait of Bellweather untouched. She ran a hand through her hair, desperate for some mental clarity.

She felt a tingling in her fingers, a sensation that spread up her arms. She looked at her hands, as if she could find an answer there. She was unable to look away, as if trapped in a never-ending scene.