“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’sInferno,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 writtenin 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.”
