Divine Desecration

Verity Everleigh

I don’t belong here.

The realization crystallizes the moment I step through the glass doors of Elysium Arts. It’s in the stillness that whispers with the scent of aged wood and the quiet, heavy echo of wealth. It’s in the stony silence filled with treasures never meant to be touched, only admired from a distance.

The gallery unfolds before me in white marble floors and walls the color of pale bone, adorned with art so exquisite it seems to transcend reality. Spotlights descend like blessings from above, casting a glow that turns the space into a cathedral turned inside out.

A gentle tug on my hand halts me, and I tilt my head up to face my younger brother, Gabriel.

“What do you see?” he asks. His voice is low, yet it carries clearly over the soft murmur of the crowd and the delicate, crystalline clink of champagne flutes.

“Shapes... colors... lines,” I reply, my voice trailing off as my eyes trace the intricate strokes of the masterpiece before us.

“Look closely,” he whispers, his tone shifting into something reverent. “See? It’s a town. An entire settlement.” His words unveil the art as if he were reading a sacred text.

Art has been his passion since childhood. While I, the dutiful firstborn, carried the mantle of responsibility and domestic care, Gabriel was free to explore his passions, unfettered, as every child should be.

“Hey, V,” Gabriel says, pulling out his phone. “I need a minute to take this. Try not to look so out of place.” He taps my shoulder with a teasing smile, then slips away with a quick kiss to my temple.

I draw a deep breath, willing my feet not to give out. It’s been a long day, and every fiber of my being wanted nothing more than to go home and rest. But when my brother asked me to come see what he sees, to understand the love he holds for this world, while looking at me with those hopeful brown eyes so identical to our late father’s, I couldn’t say no. I could never deny my brother anything. So, here I am.

A sculpture of a hand reaching outward captures my attention. I wonder if there is a deeper story behind those reaching fingers, or if it is simply an empty gesture extending into space. It’s difficult to tell.

I may not fully understand art, but I can appreciate the labor, the brushstrokes, the creativity behind it. Moving from wall to wall, I attempt to relax, relinquish control, and allow my weary feet to guide me while my mind wanders.

A massive artwork brings me to a sudden stop. I hold my breath, blinking at the intensely disturbing piece. What confuses me more than the subject is the inexplicable beauty hidden within its grotesque nature.

The work features chaotic charcoal-black strokes on gray, reminiscent of a storm or a turbulent sea. Violent bursts of crimson catch my eye, and a faint silhouette of a woman stands amidst the carnage.

Something tugs at my heart, compelling me to step closer. I know I shouldn’t, but the pull is magnetic. It feels as if the painting is trying to communicate with me, pleading for my attention. It’s an odd thought, perhaps, for a thirty-year-old woman of faith.

I back away, yet my gaze remains fixed on the canvas. The stillness of the gallery envelops me like a shroud as I stand there, waiting for an explanation. A sign. For what, I am not sure.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

A deep voice rumbles through the silence, making my spine snap straight. An icy shiver runs through me at the impossible thought of the painting actually speaking.

Looking around, I realize I’ve drifted away from the crowd into a long, shadow-drenched hallway, but I’m not alone. Before me is what must be a sculpture come to life. He stands tall and commanding, so dark yet so arresting in a charcoal-gray suit that looks tailored to his every muscle. Black dress shirt, no tie, and yet he looks every inch the master of this place. As if he stepped out from one of the priceless frames and onto the floor.

A smidge of crimson on the side of his neck grabs my attention, putting a sudden stop to my shameless staring, which is something I never do.

As if in a trance, I move closer, reaching a hand out. Before my fingers can make contact, he pulls back, his brows narrowing slightly.

“This area is closed off. Go back the way you came.” His tone sounds angry or irritated; likely both.

“You’re hurt,” I say, ignoring the warning bells ringing in my head. “I’m a doctor. Let me look at it.”

He doesn’t respond or indicate for me to proceed. I shift my gaze from his likely injured neck to his face, only to find him already watching me. I’m hit with a sudden, strong urge to step away because no one has ever looked at me so intently. I wonder if eyes have ever been so dark.

“Let me look at you.” My voice is surprisingly steady despite the odd feeling igniting in my core.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, the action sending a jolt of something like fear through me. I avert my gaze, but instead of walking away, which would be the smart thing, I invade his personal space, pull at his collar, and press lightly on the skin around the crimson with careful fingers.

The moment my fingertips touch his warm, mahogany skin, I light up. A fierce heat rushes through me, both electrifying and consuming. A sheen of sweat coats my skin while the purpose of my actions escapes me for a moment. I have to mentally shake myself out of the force taking over so I can focus on what I thought was an injury.

It isn’t. It is not a cut or a bruise, though the sticky red on his skin is definitely fresh blood. This close, I can smell the metallic scent trying to overpower the expensive, masculine cologne underneath. It is as if he was drenched in blood and just finished cleaning it off.

Where did it come from? Perhaps a nosebleed?

The question is on the tip of my tongue when footsteps resonate in the hallway as a man dressed in a black suit approaches. Unlike the brooding figure in front of me, this one resembles a secret service agent, and I wonder if that is indeed his role. His steps falter upon noticing us, but only for an instant before he continues.

The man whom I assumed was hurt steps away from me and shoves his hands into his pockets. In a deep, smooth voice, he instructs, “Escort the lady back to the exhibition hall.”

It’s a command the other man follows without question, politely gesturing for me to follow. I comply, aware that it is best not to ask questions that could land me in trouble.

My heart beats in sync with the sound of my platform wedges against the marble as the distance between us grows. The urge to glance back over my shoulder overpowers reason, and I turn my head. He’s still standing in the same spot, those dark, bottomless eyes fixed on me.

That explains the heat at the back of my neck.

The security man says nothing as he walks me back, and I force myself to stare ahead, but my mind races with questions about the man in the hallway. I wonder who he is, why he was there, whose blood that was, and most importantly, why touching him affected me so deeply.

“V!” Gabriel’s voice cuts through my thoughts as I re-enter the main exhibition area. His face is pinched with worry, his eyes scanning me as if checking for injuries. “Where did you go? I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, smoothing my hands down my dress to appear more composed than I feel. “I must have wandered off. I was looking at the artwork and just kept walking.”

Gabriel nods. “Yeah, art does that.” He glances behind me toward the hallway I emerged from, his eyebrows furrowing. “You were in the west wing? That section is closed off; something to do with renovations or a private collection. The host wasn’t entirely clear.”

“Oh.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t realize. There weren’t any signs.”

What stays hidden from Gabriel is any mention of the man with the dark eyes or the blood on his skin. I don’t tell him how that stranger’s touch set my skin on fire, or how, for the first time in my life, I felt something beyond the carefully constructed boundaries I’ve set for myself.

“Well, you’re here now.” Gabriel loops his arm through mine, his face finally relaxing. “Come on, there’s a piece I want you to see. It’s by that artist I told you about, the one who uses mixed media to explore religious iconography.”

He leads me through the gallery, and I nod at appropriate intervals while he enthusiastically explains the techniques and symbolism. My mind, however, keeps drifting back to that hallway, to those dark eyes that seemed to see right through me.

“V, are you listening?” Gabriel’s voice pulls me back to the present.

“Yes, of course,” I lie, focusing on the painting before us. It’s a chaotic swirl of pale blues and whites meant to represent divine revelation. “It’s beautiful.”

“You hate it,” he observes, a smile tilting the corners of his lips.

“I don’t hate it. I just...” It’s hard to explain that art has never moved me the way it moves him. Not until today. Not until that disturbing painting with its violent crimson splashes.

Gabriel squeezes my arm affectionately. “It’s okay. Not everyone connects with art the same way. Ready to head out? You look tired.”

Grateful for the suggestion, I nod. As we make our way toward the exit, my eyes instinctively scan the crowd, half-expecting to see those penetrating dark eyes watching me. There’s no sign of him.

Outside, the chill evening air bites into my overheated skin. I retrieve a scarf from my purse and hand it to Gabriel to wrap around his neck for extra warmth. He politely declines, reassuring me that the jacket is enough. I wrap it around myself instead. Gabriel chatters about his impressions of the exhibition as we walk to the car, but I’m only half-listening.

The drive back to my apartment is a blur. Gabriel drops me off with a promise to call when he gets home. After his taillights disappear around the corner, I enter the building, offer a polite nod to the night doorman, and seek the familiar comfort of my own space. Tonight, however, even these cream walls feel different.

I hang my coat, moving through my evening routine mechanically. The clock reads 10:15 PM, which puts me fifteen minutes behind my usual bedtime.

My nightgown sweeps the floor as I pad to the bathroom. I wash away the day with gentle, circular motions over my face, humming a slow worship song under my breath. While brushing my teeth, I frown at my reflection — it’s odd that I expected to look different somehow.

Finally, I settle into bed and reach for the Bible on my nightstand. The leather is worn smooth from years of nightly readings, the pages comforting in their familiarity. I open to Psalm 23, seeking the words that usually bring peace.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want...”

The words blur before my eyes. Instead of the Good Shepherd, I see dark eyes studying me with an unsettling, raw intensity.

Closing the Bible, I reach for my journal, the one where I’ve recorded my thoughts, prayers, and gratitudes every night for the past decade. A blank page stares back at me. For the first time since I began this practice, my mind is empty of words to write, yet paradoxically overflowing with thoughts I can’t quite capture. I tap my pen against the paper, leaving small blue dots like raindrops. After several minutes, I set it aside, unsettled by the deviation from my routine.

The prayer rug my mother gifted me when I moved into this apartment is soft beneath me as I slide from the bed to my knees. I clasp my hands together as I’ve done every night since childhood, then empty my head, open my heart for God to take over.

“Dear God,” I begin, the familiar words forming on my lips. “Thank you for this day and the blessings you’ve provided. Thank you for keeping the children at the shelter safe.”

Even as I speak, my mind wanders back to crimson on dark skin and the strange heat of that man’s proximity.

“Guide me in your ways, Lord,” my mouth continues, but my mind whispers something else.

Find me.

I pause, startled by the unbidden thought.

“Help me be a faithful servant,” I continue aloud, but the words can’t drown out the shift occurring inside me, unfamiliar and demanding, echoing loudly over my prayers.

See me.

Disoriented by the strange disconnect between what I’m saying and what I’m feeling, I open my eyes. Never before has my communion with God felt so... invaded.

My legs are unsteady as I get to my feet. I need rest. A good night’s sleep will reset my mind. By tomorrow, everything will make sense again. Tomorrow I’ll return to the person I’ve always been.