Page 82 of Devil Inside

The drab terracotta tint of the ancient art falls back, and now we’re in an explosion of color. Here we have Warhol. De Kooning. Lichtenstein. So many bold, brash paintings.

I join the flow, letting the slow riptide of bodies guide me, stopping at each framed piece long enough to take the painting in before moving on to the next portrait.

Getting warmer...

I notice the couples. The shared experience. Taking in the art. Talking about what their interpretation is. Holding hands. Do I want that? Someone to share this?

Look at these people. Going about their lives. They could all end just like...that.

A snap of my fingers.

I find myself halting before the Rothko. The black plains of his paintings. There’s something oddly calming about his work. I wonder if that’s what hell looks like.

Hotter...

There’s death in there, I can feel it. It seeps out from the canvas, radiating out from the frame. I reach my hand out to touch it. I want to see if it’ll rub off on me.

Burning...

“You’re standing too close to the artwork, sir,” someone says right behind my shoulder. “Do you mind stepping back, please?”

When I do, I bump directly into the person who said it. It’s one of the security guards, a Black man in a crisp suit, standing at attention. His eyes never leave mine, but I seeher.

“Am I in trouble?” I ask.

“The day’s young.”

“You’ll have to catch me.”

I bolt. Leave Lilith behind. I’ll play hard to get. Let’s see if she can catch me.

I hear footsteps just behind me, so I pick up the pace. I’m running now.

Laughing.

“Slow down,” someone shouts. Is it her? “No running!”

There’s no stopping me now.

I duck into another room, racing into another. I glance over my shoulder to see if she’s still following, but I can’t make her out. She’s not there. Or is she? Where? Who?

Jordan wants us to catch him. That shouldn’t be hard. His black light bleeds across the halls, the floor, the ceiling, spreading out from the very center of himself.

He is a work of art himself, more vibrant than the portraitsadorning these walls. He has his own oil spill hues of purple, green, and blue. The darkest colors. The coldest light.

We want to hang him up on the gallery wall. Let these people marvel at him.

Bear witness.

All these artists from over the centuries have spent their lives struggling to exorcise the images within. Their own demons. The voices cluttering their mind, whispering.

Who used their own skin as a canvas? What if your body was the frame? Within it, your flesh? What if the demon within was your work of art? Who would hang us up?

Who would see?

We’re running after him, pushing past all the people. Nobody stops us. We’re chasing after each other through a field of people, their limbs bristling as we run by.

“Hey! Slow down! No running!”