Chapter Text
The old church had been built in the 1600s. Ventus remembers going there for the first time. He had just turned five; the smell of incense hung in the air, heady and heavy, full of purpose. The stained glass left multicoloured patterns across the pews, images of saints warped against the dark wood. The choir’s songs echoed through the archways, songs of praise ringing through his ears. His father had ushered him into a pew near the front and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, gazing up at the large, commanding bust of Jesus soldered into the wall.
“This is the house of the Lord, my son. We treat it with dignity and respect.”
Ventus never forgot those words. They sat in his mind each day, and were the first thoughts he had upon entering the building every Sunday. Even now, with vines encroaching over the rusted bell sitting in the belfry, Ventus treated the slowly decaying structure with a sense of reverence.
Which is why this morning, at the sight of a large, purple, semi-realistic painting of a penis on the cracked white panelling, Ventus almost throws up.
“Oh my goodness,” he gasps, choking around the crisp morning air. He swallows heavily, pulls out his phone, and decides to investigate.
As he approaches the offending purple monstrosity, he notices the paint is still somewhat wet. Ventus scrunches his nose at the scent of aerosol hanging in the air.
Is the person that did this still here? He wonders.
His investigation continues; his shoes make soft crunches against the dewy greenery as he walks around to the back of the building.
He lets out a small scream, dropping his phone and his book bag.
There’s… someone there. Ventus can’t tell what they look like or how old they might be; the person’s face is obscured with a large ventilation mask, a black bandana, and a pair of circular goggles surrounding their eyes. Their black hair peeks out from underneath an orange beanie. Patches of various shapes, colours and sizes adorn the acid wash denim vest across their body. In their gloved hands, they hold a can of red spray paint; an uncapped purple can sits beside their wet kneecap.
The person’s head turns at Ventus’s scream. “Can I help you?” They ask flatly.
Ventus swallows around the massive lump in his throat. “What are you doing to our church?” He asks, leaning down and gripping his bag with a nervous hand.
“This is… your church?”
“Yeah.” Ventus swipes his hand across the suede of his bag; grass falls off it in small swishes. “We come here every Sunday for service.”
“I thought this place was abandoned.”
“Abandoned?” Ventus sputters. “Do you not see the cars parked here every Sunday? Do you not hear the hymns?”
The person shrugs. “Just moved here last week,” they say, shaking the can of paint and spraying a bright red circle across the panelling. “Thought the overgrown vines across the top were a sign.”
Ventus gasps. “Stop!”
“Relax.” The person stands up and brushes the wet grass from their ripped black jeans. “Now that I know it isn’t, I’ll leave it alone.” They swipe a straight line of paint through the middle of the circle. “Cross my heart.”
With a wary glance, Ventus shrugs his bag back over his shoulder. “Alright. I’ll hold you to it. This place is sacred; people like you who don’t care need to stay away .”
“Whatever.” The person pulls off their goggles and mask, looping them across their wrist. They keep the bandana on, Ventus notices, as their eyes lock with his own. Ventus shifts uncomfortably as he looks into the molten gold of the person’s iris. “I’ll see you around, then.”
“Not around here, I hope.”
The person rolls their eyes. Ventus notes the eyebrow piercing above them with a sense of caution. “Whatever,” they repeat. They pick up their paint, give a noncommittal wave, and walk off into the morning sunlight.
Ventus lets out a loud exhale as the sound of the jingling beads laced into the person’s boots fade. He stares at the dripping paint, brows creased into a heavy line against his soft features. He leans down, picks up his phone from the wet grass, and taps at the contact information for his father.
“Hey, dad? We’re going to need a power washer…”