What kind of pain makes someone believe they’re possessed?
There was a moment, just one, when he touched my wrist. His hand was warm. Solid. Not demanding. Not cruel. Just…steady. Like he was trying to hold onto something real. Something that wouldn’t run. My throat tightens. I close the sketchbook and press it to my chest. My fingers are blackened with smudges.
If father knew I was drawing again…
He says art opens doors to demons. A cankerous sore on the world. A perversion of sin, spat onto canvas. Too provocative. Too seductive. But art is the only time I feel. The only time I’m permitted to breathe without asking permission. But tonight… Trey gave me something I can’t explain. He looked at me, really looked at me, and didn’t flinch.
He didn’t see a sinner.
He didn’t see the red hair.
He didn’t see the bruises.
He saw me.
That terrifies me more than anything.
The wind screams through the cracked window frame, rattling the glass. Downstairs, the chapel glows faintly, warm light flickering across the altar. I forgot to snuff the candles. I should go down. My hand hesitates at the door. I told him to wait. I don’t expect him to listen. No one ever does.
Is he still out there? Cold. Soaked. Searching for salvation in a place that’s never offered me any. I tuck the sketchbook back into the vent, slide the pencil behind the baseboard, and pull on my oversized threadbare sweater. The sleeves hide everything that matters. I slip out, barefoot. The floorboards creak beneath me. I’ll have to wash them again after morning prayers, there’s grit under my toes, but I glide forward anyway. Each step is a quiet rebellion. The portrait helped ease the itch under my skin… but he still calls to me. I find my cheeks heat at the thought of him. If art is a sin, what would father say about someone like him? His entire body—adorned in sin. What is this ache in my stomach? This curiosity at the thought of his inked skin? The rain continues its gentle percussion against the roof. Water clings to the windows, washing over the stained glass. Maybe if I take a stroll in the rain, it’ll wash away the guilt. Or drown me in it.
The chapel is quiet. Except for the soft hiss of candle flames and the rain whispering overhead.
I see him. Trey. He’s at the back of the room, hunched over a pew, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. His leather jacket clings to him, darkening the ink spiraling down his arms and throat. He hasn’t noticed me yet. One foot taps restlessly againstthe floor, like he’s trying to shake something off. But it’s still with him. Whatever followed him out of the dark.
I stay in the shadows a moment longer, studying him. The curve of his spine. The tension in his jaw. He looks like he’s unravelling—silently. Beautifully.
God help me—I want to draw him like this.
Torn.
Vulnerable.
A penitent man, leaning over an old pew. Waiting for someone to save him.
The scent of frankincense still lingers, mingling with the citrusy notes from the wax and wicks. I lit it earlier, when the air turned too heavy to breathe. But now… it feels like it’s for him. For whatever clings to him.
I step forward. The floor creaks and his head lifts sharply. His eyes find mine instantly—green and wild, rimmed with exhaustion and something raw.
“You waited,” I whisper.
He smirks, faint but real. “Figured if I’m gonna be saved, might as well commit.”
I shake my head, smiling just a little. I nod toward the altar. “Come here.”
Trey rises slowly, stretching his long frame as he approaches. Water drips from his sleeves onto the stone floor. He smells like rain and smoke. I hold his gaze as I move behind the altar, rustling around until I find what I need.
“On your knees,” I say softly.
His brows lifts. “Usually, it’s the other way around.”
My lips twitch, but I ignore him. “Trey.”
His eyes drop briefly. Then he kneels.
There’s something reverent about the way he does it. Like this isn’t a joke anymore. Like part of him believes this might actually help. That maybe I can take some of it away. I circle him slowly. This shouldn’t be my place. I should sit with him. Read scripture. But the words swell on my tongue, and I’m not sure if it’ the prayers I resist, or the man I call father who cursed me with them. I open the ampule and dip my thumb in.
Trey shivers—just a subtle tremor—but then he lifts his eyes to mine. His teeth bite down on his bottom lip, like he’s fighting something he won’t let himself say.
