the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

sixteen

sixteen

Michael could hear his phone ringing. Well, not really. He could hear some type of ringing somewhere in the world, but he wasn't sure where. He continued to stare at the canvas in front of him.

It was an old painting, one he used to be proud of. Looking at it now, he's not sure how he was ever proud of such a disaster.

This is what artists do. They stare at their work until they hate it. This is what musicians do. They listen to their work until they hate it. This is what writers do. They read over their work until they hate it. This is what Michael does. He goes through his work until he wants to burn it all.

His phone went off again. It vibrated off the desk in his studio corner, that's how he knew it was real and not in his head.

It was his mother, he figured. His mother was always calling him, especially after he and she had a fight. Mike and his mother never quite got along. It was a liberal and republican, they never got along.

Michael stood up, wiping his hands on his loose-fitting shorts. They swished with every walk as he made his way to his phone.

To say he was surprised when Luke's name lit the screen was an understatement. Luke never calls. It's awkward, he says. It's uncomfortable, he claims.

"Luke?" Michael asked once sliding the green button.

Luke giggled. "I'm so fucked."

Mike furrowed his eyebrows. "What did you do?" He glared at the artwork sitting on his easel as he walked out of the studio. He turned off the lights, closing the tall door tight behind him.

"I'm drunk and I think I want to die." Luke hiccuped. He swung his legs back and forth over the roof of his apartment complex. His ankles hit the brick over, and over, and over again.

"Where are you?" Michael stepped into his shoes by the door, trying to keep his voice calm. He didn't want Luke to hang up, he didn't want Luke to give up.

Luke laid flat on the roof, his knees and below still hanging off the edge. He rested his left hand below his head, his other pressing his phone to his ear. "Did you know Van Gogh didn't lose his ear? That's bullshit, you know? He only cut off a small portion of his ear lobe. People are stupid."

"I know, Luke. Can you tell me where you are?" Michael closed his front door, trying the handle a few times before making sure it was locked. He walked towards the elevator, pressing the down arrow a few dozen times. He didn't realize he was shaking.

"Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime. Isn't that weird? He fucking killed himself and didn't get to see his world light up." Luke took a deep breath, he looked up at the night sky. There were no stars.

"Luke, I want you to tell me where you are."

"Sometimes I wonder, if I did the same as Van Gogh, will everyone know my name? Will I sell art? Will I be art?"

Michael reached the bottom floor and began to rush out. He stood out on the front doorsteps, not sure where to go. "Luke, are you at home?"

"Kind of." Luke sat up again. His hands pressed into the gutter, his ankles hitting the red brick once more. "Van Gogh was supposed to be a pastor. Isn't that weird? The world would have been robbed of such beauty if he became a pastor."

"The world would be robbed of beauty without you." Mike got to his parking space, hopping into his car and beginning to pull up. He put the phone on speaker, placing it on his lap. He sped out of the parking garage, making a run for Luke's apartment.