CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sleep evaded me, even with the medication the doctor had prescribed. Dr. Rosewood was right. I needed something stronger, which meant I needed to see a psychiatrist.
But you’re insane. They’ll lock you up and throw away the key.
I splashed water on my face to drown out the Devil’s words. He was right. I couldn’t risk seeing a psychiatrist. What I needed to do was focus on my studies and eventually, things would settle down. I was just stressed.
And that stress was building due to approaching deadlines. Nathaniel requested two more study sessions, and I had an investigation report for another subject that was due by the end of the week, and I’d only gotten through the introduction. De-stressing seemed nearly impossible.
I must have resembled death when Nathaniel came to pick me up, for he immediately bombarded me with questions about my health.
“You’re not a licensed medical professional yet,” I pointed out tiredly.
“I am a First Aid Officer, though,” he argued.
I shot him a look.
Nathaniel returned the look as he pulled up at the traffic lights. “I know something is wrong.”
Feeling cornered, I opened the window and let out a long sigh of relief as the cool air kissed my skin. “I’m fine. I’m just stressed.”
“With assignments?”
I nodded.
“Let’s do something fun, then,” Nathaniel suggested when the traffic light turned green, attention back on the road, “to de-stress and take your mind off things.”
“What? No! We have to work on our assignment…you know, one of the things stressing me out,” I said, exasperated.
“You’re working with me, Augustus, we’re going to get it done. Don’t worry. We can afford to take some time off to relax,” he said calmly.
“I’m not thrilled about this,” I mumbled, head nearly all the way out the window to chase the wind.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“You have to choose.”
“Nathaniel–“
“Choose!”
“I don’t care, anywhere, just…” I let my eyelids flutter shut against the wind, “...just don’t stop the car yet.”
“Shall I play some music?”
I slowly opened my eyes, head turning to give Nathaniel my best ‘are you fucking kidding’ glare. He grinned, dimpled cheeks glaring back. It was hard to hate him when he smiled—the promise of Heaven in his eyes.
He connected his phone to the Bluetooth and turned up the music as he began to sing, voice cracking at the high notes.
“What the hell are you singing?”
Nathaniel raised his voice louder, body swaying from side to side as he continued to sing. “But we’ll get together then!” He finished the chorus with a cheer. “You know we’ll have a good time then!”
My lips betrayed me, spreading into a small smile as my hand shot out to nudge him.
“What?” Nathaniel laughed. “Don’t tell me you don’t know this song! It’s in Shrek!”
“I never watched Shrek.”
Nathaniel gasped and almost ran the car off the road. “WHAT?”
“Kidding,” I smirked, just as the chorus started up again.
We sang for a while until Nathaniel pulled up in front of an art gallery.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, slowly rolling up the window.
“I know you like art,” Nathaniel said, almost shyly, “and I haven’t been to this gallery before, so I thought we’d check it out.”
I ducked my head to hide the heat that rose to my cheeks.
I wasn’t used to anyone paying any interest to what I liked, nor making any effort to cheer me up.
Nathaniel was an angel. And I was afraid of him, in a way.
What was his end goal? Why was he being so nice to me?
Was this a form of distraction so that he could discard me and claim the group assignment to be his own work?
You have to stay away from him.
“Come, there are some unique sculptures here,” Nathaniel said as he started toward the entrance.
I followed, wearily, studying the back of Nathaniel’s head as if it would answer the questions racing through my mind.
Inside, an employee greeted us and made sure we didn’t bring any water or large bags into the gallery. Nathaniel took a pamphlet with information about the exhibitions and then guided me through a door to the left which led to the galleries on the first floor.
I slipped my hands into my pockets as I studied the artwork displayed on perfectly lit white walls, some framed in golden arches while others sat unframed on a canvas.
These works were contemporary, with little descriptions underneath to add context to the artwork.
Nathaniel pulled out his phone and snapped some photos of artwork he liked while I read descriptions.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Nathaniel attempting a selfie in front of a large artwork which was supposed to be an optical illusion. The horizontal lines looked like they were moving side to side, even though they weren’t.
“Would you like me to take a photo?” I offered.
Nathaniel beamed. “Yes, please!”
With a nod, I took the phone and stepped back, waiting for him to pose.
He made it seem so effortless as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his long brown coat and began walking back and forth in front of the artwork.
I tapped the camera repeatedly to capture him mid-step.
In some shots, he leaned forward, others he leaned back, some he looked at the artwork, others he stood with his back turned.
Once done, I handed the phone back to him and he didn’t even look through, as though confident there would be a good shot there.
“Would you like me to take any photos for you?” Nathaniel asked.
I shook my head. I didn’t like the way I looked on camera, and I avoided any form of mirroring, never quite knowing when the Devil would break through.
Nathaniel didn’t push. We made our way up to the second floor which was filled with classic, western artworks of biblical and royal nature, some including the English wilderness and architecture.
I stood in front of one artwork that was as tall as the floor to the high ceiling.
It had lighting all around the frame so you could take in every inch of it.
“This is unreal,” Nathaniel breathed out from behind me.
He was right. It was unreal. The way the artist captured the feeling of descending into Hell, the fear, the uncertainty, the horror.
The artwork reminded me of Dante’s Inferno, though the description said it was inspired by the artist’s personal nightmares of waking in Hell surrounded by the screams of tortured souls.
“Do you believe in Hell?” I asked curiously.
“Yes."
“Are you afraid of it?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. “Me too.”
“But I don’t think we’ll ever end up there,” Nathaniel said, though he didn’t sound as confident as he probably intended. There were doubts in his mind, and I wanted to analyse those doubts, pull them apart until I saw a crack.
“You probably won’t,” I said. “You won’t even punch someone who upsets you. I think you’re one of the good ones.”
“But I’m gay.”
I turned to look at him, head whipping around so fast that a sharp pain lanced through my neck. I ignored it as I studied the pools of sadness in his eyes. “You don’t really believe God sends you to Hell for who you love, do you?”
“No,” he sighed, “the God I believe in would never do that. But sometimes I do fear I am wrong. My friends say I should just abandon my faith. That being Catholic and gay doesn’t make sense, but my faith has nothing to do with what is written in some old book—an old book written by other humans.
But there’s still a chance I’m wrong and… that scares me.”
I remembered Father Andrej’s words: Sin is sin no matter how great. But what did he know? He wasn't God.
“Bad people go to Hell, Nathaniel. And you’re not bad. I promise.”
A small smile lit up his face. “You’re probably right. And I'm sure you won’t end up there, either."
I scoffed.
“What? You’re not a bad person.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough to know that a bad person wouldn’t have spent the last two minutes trying to reassure me I won’t go to Hell for being gay.”
I shrugged. “I think that just means I’m not homophobic.”
"Why do you think you’re a bad person?”
Do you have all day? There's a very long list of reasons.
“Come on, what did you do that was so bad?” Nathaniel asked. “Did you kill animals or something? Did you hurt your brother? Did you set things on fire? What did you do?”
I hadn’t expected the sudden interrogation, nor the way Nathaniel’s jaw tightened, his eyebrows furrowed. He looked angry. And I panicked. I didn’t want him to be angry with me.
“No…I…I didn’t kill anything. I would never hurt my brother. And I didn’t set things on fire.”
“Well? What did you do, then?” Nathaniel pushed.
I hesitated before telling him the same thing I told Dr. Rosewood—that I was disobedient, disrespectful, that I drew on walls and punched holes through windows. I couldn't tell him the truth, so whatever words he conjured to console me would mean nothing.
Nathaniel’s gaze softened and he shifted closer, raising a hand as if to touch me but decided against it before our skin could connect.
“Augustus,” he said, “you were a child. And children do those things sometimes. I’m pretty sure I did all those things at some stage, too. Does that make me a bad person too?”
“No,” I said quietly.
“Then neither are you,” Nathaniel bumped me with his elbow. “You’re too hard on yourself. You’re not some wicked demon for talking back a few times and smashing things when you’re angry. You’re not even that same kid anymore.”
“Yes, but…”
“But what?”
Tell him, the Devil urged, watch him run.
I shook my head. “I just…I have this awful feeling that I…”
“What?”
The Devil’s smile was all teeth. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it in his voice as he said, Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.
I closed my eyes, drowning out the voice with several deep breaths, and when I opened them, Nathaniel was gone, the gallery shrouded in darkness.