Chatper 8: Paint and Death

Soon Charlie reached the abandoned warehouse, cracked open a bottle of the cheapest Vodka money can buy and chugged it down. Now he could begin his masterpiece.

Hues of Red, Black, Blue, and White bled across the rusted and rotting walls of the old warehouse. Charlie knew the ways of grafitti well, and he never made mistakes. The paint can became an extension of his body, like the paint was flowing from his finger tips. His lungs filled with the toxic fumes from the cans, but Charlie could have cared less, he simply washed the paint down with more cheap Vodka.

Slowly, the masterpiece began to take shape. Everywhere on the 20 foot space there were red and white roses, and they were beautiful, only the roses were bleeding a deep, dark red. And then a beautiful face began to appear on the wall. Charlie had committed every curve and dimple of his mother's face to memory.

At one point, Charlie paused to puke up a little Chinese food from earlier. Then he proceeded to wash the taste of death out of his mouth with even more Vodka. The liqour helped the pain, painting for his mother gave him more pain, so Charlie drank more.

Soon after, Charlie saw Fil wander by mutterring about this or that. Fil asked Charlie what he was doing. And Charlie explained he was painting for his dead mother, so she could be remembered in her home town.

Fil shook his head, "Death ain't easy Charlie, but its gotta happen to everything. Dying is the only thing you have to do in your life. And thats the truth. You just gotta know when its your time."

Charlie was taken back by Fil's comment, partially because he didn't think a hobo would be so intraspective and partially because he was drunk as shit and anything can have a profound affect on a drunk person. Charlie thought for a moment, shook his head and went back to painting.

Later, Marcus Manuel passed by, looking terribly shaken and bruised up.

"Yo! Where's that old man Oscar at?" Charlie shouted, though his words now were terribly slurred.

Luckily, Marcus spoke drunk, and said, "Oh we got into some trouble last night, he's probably still recovering.

Charlie nodded, he knew not to ask anymore questions.

"Well... I'm glad someone is finally making this old piece look nice. Keep up the good work Charlie," Marcus said.

Before Charlie could respond, Marcus was gone. Charlie's hands looked like they were dipped in paint now, but he kept working. Soon, the sun started to rise, and Charlie's masterpiece was nearly complete.

As the first light of day fell onto the rundown town of Washington Heights, Charlie's masterpiece caught a beam of sunshine. His mother looked beautiful and so real in the light of the sun. Charlie completed his work by signing his name, and writing, "...And even the Angels will envy her beauty and kindness." in black paint. Charlie stepped back from the wall, admirred his work and began to cry. He bawled his eyes out, like an infant, and he was so intoxicated his tears tasted like Vodka. It was his best work, it was perfect, and it was all for his mother; all for her that loved him so much.

He knew there was nothing left for him in this shithole town. He knew there was no one left who even loved him on this shithole earth. He missed his mother.

The paint had barely finished drying when Charlie pulled out the Desert Eagle from his bag and flipped the safety off. He looked up to the sky, and pushed the cold steel barrel into his mouth. He could taste the gun powder, and he could imagine what the hollow points looked like, just waiting to be released.

Charlie said a prayer, but he knew God couldn't hear him.

He tried hard to picture his mother's face, and opened his eyes and realized her face was right in front of him.

Charlie pulled the trigger.