The Last Stroke

this is a short story I made for my creative writing class. Enjoy!

t h e l a s t

I know there are thousands of us out there; most of them are sexier than I am. He gets to hold twenty-five when he wishes to and I happen to be number three. I know it sucks, to be just one of the many choices he has but after quite some time I got used to it. After all, I am merely a paintbrush.

Today is my three hundred twenty-sixth day as paintbrush number three and as much as I want to feel his calloused palm on the curves of my body, he needs number six more than he needs me. I stood on the dirty bottle and watched him work on his painting. As I do so, I could feel my stiff bristles sway in joy.

I frowned when I noticed a subtle smile on his face as he stroked paintbrush number six against the canvas lightly and fluidly. Pitch usually paints using dark and disturbing colors, and it is quite a shock that he made use of pastels. It isn't him but I'll let him, for now. I would find the underlying cause of this. He is happy! My Pitch does not smile while working! He can't be cheating on me, can he?

I shook the thought out of my head and waited. Dip-Paint- Dip.

It has been an hour and, I could almost imagine my arms crossed and my feet tapping against the plastic bottle- if only I have them. My hair is nearly splitting like the red sea when he turned towards my plastic bottle and got me.

The moment I felt his warm skin against my wooden body, the buzz of excitement and hope surged through me. Damn! It felt exactly like the first time he used me. I would never get tired of this. With my heightened sense of importance, I let him dip my bristles on the smelly and dense pink paint, unmindful of what I might look like after. This is what I am!

The process went on and on until the ringing doorbell disrupted us. I sensed his panic and my wood grains started shaking in fear that he would drop me but I knew he loved me too much to do that. He would gently return me to my plastic bottle and-

Ahhhhhhhh!

There was only air beneath me, and I could see the large tarpaulin as gravity pulled me down. The next thing I knew, I heard a thud as my body hit the floor. My friends gasped, probably as shocked as I was.

Apparently, it does not hurt physically, but the betrayal hit me straight to my tip. I stared at the white ceiling as paint dripped down from my bristles. I am such a fool to believe that he would never hurt me!

I heard voices coming nearer and I whipped my bristles toward their direction. I regretted it instantly when I saw the person standing on the doorway. A girl!

My attention shifted to Pitch and I had to swallow a shrill when I caught him affectionately smiling at her. Traitor!

The girl walked further into the room, particularly towards me and my eyes widened in panic. Everything was in slow motion as I watched her lift her foot, its shadow hovering above me.

Is this how I finally die? Surely, it won't hurt as much as knowing that I am not the only one, right?

Those were my last thoughts.

Snap!