Don't Touch the Art

I always imagined that I would spend an awful amount of time during my twenties inside of museums and art galleries when I was younger. It was the activity that I looked the most forward to. I would think to myself, ‘I could be there all on my own. I won’t need my parents or my older siblings to supervise me.’

I relished the idea of being around art by myself. There would be strangers in the building with me of course, but none of them would know who I am. There would be no one to distract me with their side conversations, no one to rush me to move on to the next painting, no one that would grow annoyed with how silent I became while I stood in front of a portrait. 

Younger me was kind of a ninny. 

Because oh, how much I wished I wasn’t alone right now. And I don’t mean alone in the sense that I have no family or friends who accompanied me today—I am the only one here. 

“Who the fuck pregames before going to The Morgan?” I can hear the grogginess in my voice and for a second, I think I’m in a dream. 

Younger me also failed to imagine I would be quite the drinker in my twenties. 

I recognize that my legs are laid across the floor and that they feel like mush. I can feel the cool tiles against my back. I have to be kind of sitting up, right? 

I turn my head to the right in slow motion. At least, that’s what it feels like. My eyes meet the lower half of a door and I can see what’s outside from the gap in between the floor and where the door ends. There’s a piece of dry toilet paper by my fingertips…so I’m in a bathroom stall.

Shit.

When did I go to the bathroom? Better question—How did I even manage to find the bathroom? Knowing what kind of state I must’ve been in before, I think that I don’t even want to know.

I plant my hands on the floor and push myself to stand up. I’m still a little drunk, I see. After taking a minute to breathe, I push my hand into the pocket of my coat and thankfully find my phone. I turn it on to check the time and I feel a wave of anxiety run its course through my body.

It’s four in the morning. I place my clammy hand over my heart and stare holes into my phone screen. I don’t see any notifications. No one called. No one texted. Which makes perfect sense, because I didn’t tell anyone what I would be doing today. Or yesterday. Whatever. 

Well…at least nobody knows what I did. 

I unlock the stall and pull it open at full speed. I’m met with a long mirror that rests above all the sinks. I put my phone back in my pocket and turn on the water. I lather my hands in soap and rinse it off. I splash the cold water on my face, not even daring to look at my reflection. With closed eyes, I grab paper towels from the dispenser and pat my face dry. 

Feeling brave enough to face myself, I slowly move the now wet paper towel away from my face and open my eyes. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it surely wasn’t this. 

I’m a big old scaredy cat.

I shake my head and chuckle at myself. “I’m literally fine.” And I was. My hair was a little messy and my eyes looked very tired. The usual hangover look. 

Am I even hungover if I still feel drunk? 

“Why am I still drunk?” I know that I’m the only one in here, so it doesn’t fucking matter that I’m talking to myself. I push my fingertips to the back of my scalp and laugh anxiously, “Oh my god, I can’t remember how I continued to drink. Did I drink inside of the museum? How wasn’t I caught?”

All of these questions and concerns were catching up to me quickly. It’s like logical thinking hit me out of nowhere because why was I feeling moderately calm up until this point? I’m in a bathroom—hopefully the museum’s bathroom—and I have no recollection of the events that took place before I woke up. This is possibly the worst place to blackout at.

 I know that if I open the door and walk out of here, I will have a greater chance at piecing together what happened last night. However, I’m scared that I’ll find a large crowd of people waiting for me outside. It’s irrational, because it is dead silent. And it’s four in the morning. I don’t even think the security for this place is here this late. 

Before I decide to walk to the door, I pull out my phone again. There’s a possibility I documented some of last night. I’m filled with nerves and excitement as I see my thumb hovering over the photos app, but it’s mostly nerves. I blow out a breath and press down.

What…

“The fuck?” I holler the rest of my thoughts out loud. I have to turn off the phone and march outside, an imaginary crowd of people be damned. 

I immediately know where I am as I walk down the halls. Last night wasn’t my first time coming to this museum. I came here last summer and I knew I had to visit again. No other museum or art gallery had drawn me in this much.  

No museum had spooked me this much, I now come to realize. 

“I’m not going crazy. I’m not going crazy. I’m not growing crazy.” Who the hell was I fooling? I was going crazy. I AM going crazy. 

Why in the fuck was the last photo in my gallery a selfie with the sculpture of St. John the Baptist? 

AND WHY WASN’T HE A SCULPTURE? WHY WAS HE WALKING BY MY SIDE HOLDING UP A PEACE SIGN. 

This couldn’t possibly be. I had to calm the thrashing of my heart against my chest. I kept on walking and opened my photo gallery again. The photo was still there and still very much SPOOKY. I stopped in my tracks when I saw that it was a live photo. 

There’s no way.

I held my finger down on the photo and I could not believe what I was seeing. It sounds so cliche but it’s true. I. Could. Not. Believe. It.

There he was, St. John in the flesh. His white mouth curled up into a smirk and his hand flew up to his face to make the peace sign. 

I don’t know how, but my legs managed to move me to the center of the room I entered. All of the paintings and the sculptures were…hungover.

Oh my god, did I get them drunk? 

What type of questions am I even asking? It’s so hard to argue with myself because I’m literally seeing it play out in front of my eyes.

 I don’t think I’m drunk anymore. Is it possible to have so much adrenaline pumping through your veins that it cancels out the alcohol? Because I feel very much sobered up. 

“You..” I whip my head down to see who was talking to me. My eyeballs damn ear popped out of my sockets. The man from Portrait of a Man with a Pink was looking up at me with bloodshot eyes. I can’t even say his name because he doesn’t have one! For fuck’s sake, he’s called the Man. “You need to get this to a very special person.” He was holding the damn letter or whatever people have guessed it was in the painting in his hand. 

“I…well-”

“Hey!”

I gasped loudly and turned around with my arms up, like I was surrendering in a battle or something. I guess the security was here at this hour.

“Young lady, you need to leave. Now.” I furrowed my brows and opened my mouth in bewilderment. Could he not see what fiasco was taking place behind me?

“Can’t you see?” I asked incredulously. I heard my own voice and I was certain I sounded as crazy as I felt. I whipped my head around to point out the–

They’re gone.