the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

twenty four

twenty four

trigger warning : depression

He's pathetic, he's a mess. He's trying to breathe, and it hurts.

Luke laid on his bedroom floor, crying silent sobs. His body is shaking with sadness as he wipes his wet eyes with the palm of his dry hand.

No one cares for him, he's convinced. He's the disappointment of every group, every situation. He regrets yelling at his mother so much. He regrets ignoring his roommates so much.

Luke wraps himself closer, taking in his own body heat. He rolls on the ground, his head against the dirty, dark walls. His bare feet kick over a pile of canvases, letting them fall to the ground in a rush.

Everything is always in a rush. Luke's entire life has been a rush. Suddenly, he's thirty, unmarried, unloved, and sad.

His face is scrunched up, boiling a vermillion red as he cannot stop the tears. He curls his knees to his face, his fetal position tight. His throat is sore, every time he swallows, one million glass bottles flow down with his saliva—at least, that's what it feels like. His eyes are dry yet glassy. The bags under them looking unusually puffy.

He looks at his bare thighs, his plaid boxers ridden up on his right thigh. Raised red lines are across the pearly white tones of what was once his clean thighs. His thoughts are swarming, telling him how mentally ill he has become. He finds his thighs pretty, an artwork in disguise. He finds it a masterpiece, one only he will ever see.

Luke is a mess.

"I want to die," he swore to himself. "I want to die," he repeated a few times more. His feet were cold, his legs were too. He kicked them out, scraping against a few more canvases that have fallen quick to the ground.

Luke didn't think he was a good artist. He knew he should've listened to his parents more, should have yelled at them less.

He was never a troubled child, he was just lost. He was scared, he was lost, he was insecure.

His worst nightmares have come true. He's not successful, he never proved his parents wrong. He just added to their factors, added to their side. Luke wishes he could go back to little nine year old him and take the paint brush from his hands. He wishes he could have just gone to school instead of getting high, went to college instead of scraping by.

Michael crosses Luke's mind. Hell, it's time for Luke to stop lying. Michael is always crossing the boys mind. The younger boy is taking over Luke's every thought. The feeling of his finger tips as they drag him through the city, the feeling of his dry lips pressed to Luke's warm presence. His airy laugh filled Luke's ears, his bright smile filled Luke's eyes.

Michael was just such a happy character. He was so filled of life, filled of joy. It slightly petrified Luke, he couldn't understand how a human could be filled with true rays of sunshine burning through his veins.

Michael had everything Luke wanted. He had money, he had pride, he had success. His name was in lights, as were his half-filled canvases. Luke promised himself he would never conform to art society, but the nights are getting longer and harder.

Luke let out another painful sob, his eyes irritated from the constant wiping of tears. He rolled on his back, his knees bent against the floor. He moaned out in sadness, he truly wanted to die.

He didn't know what death was growing up. As a kid, he thought everyone lived until they were old. He thought everyone lived happy lives, where they met the love of their life, then had a few kids. They had a stable job, retired mid-life. Everything was okay as a kid.

Something hit him though, something mentally hit his brain and washed away any memory of being okay. It hit him, and suddenly the color of his life was gone. He didn't see hues of blue nor green. It was black, it was white, and it was grey.

He didn't see a point in living, he didn't think he'd make it to twenty-eight years of age.

Now he's not convinced he's going to make it through the night. Luke doesn't want to make it through the night.