It had been days since Van Gogh had actually finished a painting instead of trashing every sketch he made. This evening was no different. Frustrated by his seeming inability to create anything even closely resembling the greatness of his clone fathers work he sank down on the wooden chair in the corner of his room. Never taking his gaze of his failed attempt at a semi realistic landscape of the view outside his bedroom window. Not that there was anything exiting or inspiring to draw in this dump he had to call his hometown anyways. The red haired boy began nervously picking at his finger, scraping the oil paint of of his nails and cleaning them on his shirt. He knew that those stains would probably never come out of the orange sweater he was wearing and he certainly knew that his foster mother would lose it ,once again, over his paint stained clothes. But he didn't care. At this point there might be not a single clothing item in his closet that isn't permanently stained by some sort of paint. He was a messy painter. You'd think a messy painter like him might be able to simply slap some colours on a canvas and call it an abstract piece which is simply much too deep for all of his peers to understand. Making up some sort of deeper meaning behind three paint strokes and the result of what looks like if a hamster covered in paint had a seizure on a canvas. It's not like no one would praise him for it or maybe even buy it. It's the closest thing they will ever get to a real VanGogh, so 500 bucks for three brush strokes and some "room for interpretation" seems like a great deal, if it's coming from Vincent VanGoghs hands. But it isn't. It's not the real VanGoghs hands. Not his brush strokes. Not his mind coming up with the compositions. It's the hands of some messed up genetically engineered freak who's only duty in life is to become his clone father. Not that anyone would care. He's still the closest thing they got and will probably ever get again so they might as well make the best of it. Vincent scratches his head, ruffling up his ashy red hair which is falling over his forehead in waves. He notices his reflection in the window. Just sitting there. Starring back at him. He certainly looks like the actual VanGogh. That's at least one thing Scudworth got down. Maybe not a grown up version of VanGogh. No. Certainly not. You can clearly tell he's still a teenager. More like a 16 year old, tired, little, scrawny, teenage version of VanGogh that smokes cigarettes in the schools bathroom by himself and sits alone at lunch. Yeah that's a pretty good description. Even the bits of facial hair that had started growing on his face the last couple of years screamed "I'm either a massive stoner or a weird football coach dad" and he couldn't really decide which one was worse. When it really started growing in the first time he stole some waxing strips from his foster mum and just slapped them right on, unaware that he would have to deal with the fear of ripping of his upper lip only seconds later. That was the last time he tried getting rid of it. He just accepted his defeat and still isn't able to grow back hair on certain parts of his face leaving him with even more patchy looking facial hair than before. Vincent decides he isn't going to be getting any more work done today anyway so he might as well go to sleep and begins to change into his pyjamas. He carelessly throws his sweater and jeans on his bedrooms floor and quickly grabs a grey T-shirt and some blue sweatpants to sleep in. He looks down at himself before laying down on his bed and throwing his blanket over his head. He is wearing a band T-shirt. The words "Black Sabbath" are written in big grey letters across his chest in a spray-painted looking font. His foster mum gifted it to him on his 15th birthday. He had never really cared for the band before but tried listening to them in an attempt to make his mum feel good about her gift. Which worked. She still tells all of her friends how much of a Black Sabbath and Ozzy Osborn fan he is. He isn't. It's not that he dislikes them. He just doesn't listen to them. But he would never dare to tell her that. He doesn't want to burst her bubble. He sighs, sinking even deeper into the comfort of his bed. Just close your eyes and drift away. It's not that hard. It's just sleeping. That's like the easiest thing to do. Ever. He turns around on his stomach, telling himself that if he could just find the right position he would be asleep in the next couple of seconds. He wasn't. Instead he was laying in his bed, wide awake, starting at his sealing. "Fuck this" he mumbles under his breath. Suddenly the ear ringing silence inside of his room is broken by movement outside his window. VanGogh tries to ignore the sounds telling himself that it's probably just a bird outside his window. The movement stopped shortly after, confirming Vincent's theory in his head. But not even three minutes later the red haired boy begins to hear the same strange noises coming from the next doors bathroom. That's enough. Either that bird has mistaken his windows for the night sky 15 times in a row or someone is trying to get into his bathroom. Vincent hastily grabs a stop sign which he stole one day and just decided to keep in his room for decoration and carefully approaches the bathroom door which is connected directly to his room. He grips the pole of the sign as hard as he can, ready to knock out whoever or whatever might be waiting for him behind the door and abruptly kicks the door to the room open, just in time to see an ungainly seeming individual fall of his windowsill after squeezing themselves through the way to small bathroom window and finally landing face first on the tiled floor with a groan. It doesn't take Vincent long to realise who the figure was and lowers his weapon when he sees JFK's eyes staring back at him in surprise. "What the fuck man." VanGoghs hisses at him, trying to keep his voice down in an attempt to not wake his mum. "Why the fuck are you braking into my bathroom you fucking psycho." JFK finally sat up and touched his forehead to check if he had injured himself after his inelegant fall. "Hey Gogh." He mumbles looking up at him, visibly still dizzy from his forced entry. "Seriously John. What the fuck" Vincent keeps on going, not even waiting for the others response. "Look. I was bored and I texted you like 5 times but you didn't respond, because of course you don't, and I just wanted to go out and do something. Anything." John tries to explain in a reproachfully tone. "Maybe going for a smoke?" The clone of the former president of the United States had finally stood up and was now towering over Vincent with his stocky frame. Van gogh rolls his eyes and turns around to go back into his bedroom. "And breaking into my Bathroom was easier than trying to call me or throw something at my window how exactly?"John just shrugs following him into his room and throwing himself onto VanGoghs bed. "I just know this was the most effective way to come in contact with you." This just gains another sigh from Vincent who had already begun changing into the clothes scattered all over his bedroom floor. "Well?" He asks when he is done changing a few moments later, looking down at John who had been studying the posters on his walls. "Did you come her just to lay in my bed or are we going to go somewhere?" JFK jumps out of his bed with a grin on his face and begins to walk into the direction of the bathroom once again only to be stopped by an annoyed VanGogh, aggressively tugging his arm in the opposite direction. "We are using the front door you fucking moron" he scoffs. "You know? Like a normal human being would?"
