the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

thirty four

thirty four

One million is a big number, especially in Michael's bank account. He's now nineteen years old, the love of his life has been dead for three months, and his bank account reached seven digits.

The average life is about twenty nine thousand and two hundred days (Luke lived about ten thousand). One million is a huge number to grasp, in need of celebration, by far.

But, Michael doesn't deserve any of it. All those times Luke brought down his cocky attitude were much needed, and now Mike doesn't really feel happiness. He's making more money than his parents did in their teenage years and he can't even legally drink in America.

Mike leans against Luke's grave at four in the morning, tears running his cheekbones. "It sucks, you know? You could of had this, Luke," Michael whispers. "You could have had all of this. The money, the fame, the love. Luke, I love you."

Michael wraps his arms around the stone, hoping to feel a heart beat. He just wanted to pretend Luke was still alive.

"I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve to die, why did you do that to yourself?" Michael thought of sad Luke. His blue eyes fell to a dark shade when he was sad—which was often. He'd crawl back into his shell and stay there for the night.

"Why aren't you alive anymore?"

(a/n) only a few chapters left............,,,a few more deaths........,,,,,,