The Last Signature

The painting hung on the gallery wall, a crowd beginning to form around it. It was new to the gallery, just delivered that week. The gallery's curator was enchanted by it. He had held an entire meeting to discuss it. The curator had wanted to have the artist create more so that there could be a whole exhibit just for him. To the museum's surprise, the artist had declined. He claimed he made the artwork for himself and couldn't care less about an exhibit. 

The crowd standing in front of the small painting was infatuated. It was in a simple wooden frame. The painting contrasted the simpleness of the frame. It was elaborate; there were more hues than the human eye could pick up. It was a depiction of a man. Some oo-ed and ah-ed, imagining it was the artist. The painted man held a pipe and had a top hat. Some claimed the man looked too posh to be an artist. He seemed more like a businessman. The man, now being called Timothy, was in an office. 

The artist, unbeknownst to the crowd, sat on a bench across the room. He chuckled to himself at the people chattering about his grandfather. "Timothy," who was actually Robert, was far from a businessman. He worked supervising a factory. He was loved by the other employees and loved more by Lawrence. 

Lawrence had left his painting anonymous. He hadn't wanted to be known; he only wanted to share the memory of his grandfather. Robert had taken him and his sister in. He couldn't overlook that. Lawrence was laughing at the comments he was hearing about the painting. People mentioned the colours, the framing, and the depth. Lawrence drew a small notepad and pen out of his bag. He created a simple sketch, denoting the tall man in the back with his hand propping up his chin and the quiet woman standing to the left wearing headphones and writing in a notebook. 

When he finally left that evening, he stopped for dinner and drove back to the house where the painting was made. His grandfather's house. It had been left to Lawrence when Robert had passed. Canvases scattered the floor, and small paint splatters marred the walls. Lawrence had trouble sleeping ever since he lost his grandfather. The house was too big, too quiet for just him. He had lived there with Robert for years, but something was different about the house now. 

Eyes burning and head pounding from lack of sleep, Lawrence sat at his easel. He propped up his picture from earlier that day on a small side table and grabbed a canvas. The tubes of paint that surrounded the small sketch were half empty with use. He squeezed one out on a palette and began painting.

Lawrence jolted awake at around 4:30 the next morning. He had fallen asleep, brush in his hand. That's how he got sleep nowadays. Nodding off doing other things. Yawning, he looked at the painting. You could only see two faces. The ones he remembered and sketched: the tall man and the quiet woman. He sleepily decided the art was satisfactory, and he signed the corner. He used the rest of his energy to put the brush down and walk to the couch, hoping to fall back asleep, never wiping the sleep from his eyes. 

When Lawrence woke up for the second time that morning, he idly turned on the TV. He listened with his eyes closed, overhearing the typical news report. Usual things: the weather, politics, sports. When the TV got louder, his eyes, unwillingly, shot open. 

"We are just getting news of two people who have seemingly vanished," the news reporter was reading the prompter with narrowed eyes, clearly reading it for the first time. "Two people, completely unconnected from one another both disappeared last night." An image appeared on the screen of a small woman, and an inquisitive man. 

Lawrence blinked. Once, twice, then stood, hurrying to his easel. Heavy-eyed, he slowly began nodding, connecting the people in the painting to the people on the screen. He dashed back in front of the screen, now gnawing on his thumbnail. On the left of the screen was a picture of the tall man, George, with an almost equally tall woman in the gallery. On the right was a text thread from someone named Clara, the woman with the headphones, claiming the new art was immaculate - under the message was a painting all too familiar to Lawrence. 

"Family and friends of the respective groups have shared that they both attended the same art gallery yesterday. They both disappeared around 4:30 am." Lawrence had gone back to sleep around then, having just signed the painting. "George," the tall man, "was discovered missing when his wife woke in the early morning to go to the bathroom. Without a trace, her husband was gone." 

Lawrence thought that was rather odd. He thought most things were odd, but normally, he could brush them off. With the speed his heart was racing, this would not be something he could just ignore.

The news reporter leaned towards the camera, brows furrowed, "This is even stranger: Clara was in a taxi with friends when she disappeared. Her friend claimed they were in a three row vehicle and Clara was alone in the third row. One moment she was talking to her friends, the next she was gone." 

Lawrence picked up the remote and shut the TV off. He paced for a moment, then decided he needed coffee. Coffee and food. After preparing it all, he sat at the kitchen island. His head was pointed in the direction of that painting, sitting on the easel. It was as if he could see it through the walls. He shook his head, not bothering to change his clothes and grabbed his small bag, containing car keys, a notebook, and a pen.

The local park was never quiet at this time of day. People were going on runs or walking their dogs. Lawrence parked his car in the lot and walked to a bench he favoured. He always sketched to get things off his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, he surveyed the park. A tree, the fountain, the swing set. Thirty minutes later, his notebook was brimming with simple doodles of everything in the park. His heart had calmed, and his mind had settled. He spotted an old man sitting on a bench only a few meters away from him. Again, he picked up his pen. 

He carried on his day as normal. Lawrence didn't have an official job, not like his older sister had encouraged him to get. His sister, Josie, was always pushy. She had to know everything that was going on in Lawrence's life, and he, much to her dismay, avoided her calls. Robert had taken the two of them in as kids, but as soon as she was 18, Josie wanted to travel the world. So, it had been Lawrence and his grandfather. 

That day, he avoided the news at all costs. He didn't want to hear about the disappearances. 

It's odd, Lawrence thought, why did I paint them? How did they disappear?

Questions swirled around his head on his drive home. Desperately wanting to clear it, when he got home, he sat at his easel. A canvas infront of him and his sketchbook propped up beside, he started painting. It was an amalgamation of the sketches from the park. Right in the centre was a bench with a man perched atop it. Lawrence began adding details, having lost track of time. He added the knitted sweater, and the swirls of silver among the white hair. 

His mind was empty now, his hands working on their own. He snapped out of it when he heard his phone buzz. He let it buzz and buzz until it went quiet, and the call went to voicemail. Josie's voice came through the speaker. 

Hey! I can never seem to catch you, her tone was disappointed, Anyway, I saw a painting on the news today and it looked a lot like the one you did of Grandpa. If you sent it to the gallery: Congratulations!! If not, then whoops! Call me back. 

He sighed. Lawrence rarely ever called her back. He glanced at the phone: 11:30 pm. Leaning back, he assessed the painting. He added more shades of green to the trees and flowers to the grass. Judging it again, he called it done. He added his initials to the corner and stood, wanting to lay in his bed for the first time in weeks since his grandfather died. 

He woke at a normal time the next morning. Feeling truly rested, he called Josie back. This time, she didn't answer. Relief washed over him. Bringing the phone with him in case she called back, Lawrence walked to the couch and turned on the TV. 

He dropped his coffee, and the couch was now stained. The man he had painted yesterday had disappeared. He was standing now, pacing back and forth. The news said the man, Calvin, had been missing since 11:30 the night before. Lawrence recalled the phone call, the time it came in at, the time he finished the painting. His hands running through his hair, heart pounding, he called Josie. Again and again until she answered.

"Hello?" She was clearly just waking up, her voice croaky. 

"Yesterday, the painting you saw was on the same broadcast as the two missing people?" Lawrence was speaking quickly, almost indecipherable. 

"Yeah, it was Grandpa, wasn't it?" Josie said, speaking slowly. 

"Yes, it was mine," he brushed it off, panicked, saying, "but the two people who disappeared,"

Josie jumped in, "What are you talking about? Are you still not sleeping?"

Ignoring her, Lawrence continued, "I painted them. They were at the gallery looking at my picture. I wanted to see what people thought of my work, so I went. I was inspired, so I started sketching, and when I got home, I painted it."

"Okay… I don't get your point," her voice was more awake now, concern coating her words.

"They are the only people in my painting. Today, there is an elderly man missing, and I painted him last night." 

Lawrence could hear Josie slipping shoes on, "I am coming over."

"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" 

"I am coming over," she emphasized each word. 

Thirty minutes later, Josie was pulling into the long driveway. Lawrence was sitting on the front steps, not being able to stay inside the house. 

"Show me," Josie demanded. Lawrence knew she was talking about the paintings, so he led her into the house. 

He held up the two canvases, and she gasped, "I thought it might have just been a resemblance, but this is uncanny." Her face shone with pride, "I forgot how talented you were."

It had been Josie who had given him his first paint set. Being 7 years older than him, it was her gift to him on his 11th birthday and the first thing she bought with her own money. It also meant she had memories with their parents, something he had resented for years. Their parents had passed when Lawrence was only 2 years old, and since then it had just been Robert. 

"Am I crazy?" Lawrence's eyes were filled with worry, "Was Grandpa right?" 

Robert had always questioned Lawrence. Lawrence was creative, something Robert couldn't fathom. Lawrence never knew, but that was part of the reason Josie left. She couldn't handle Robert's constant questioning and degradation. But Lawrence soaked it up. Whenever his grandfather acknowledged him, Lawrence was excited. It took a lot to impress Robert, but Lawrence took any interaction from his grandfather as praise. He had stopped painting only 2 years after Josie bought him that first set. His grandfather thought it made a mess, but he didn't approve. The painting he did of his grandfather had been one of the first since then, but he never lost his talent. 

"He was never right," Josie rolled her eyes, "This is all just a weird coincidence. Let's go out and you can sketch someone, come back and paint them and you'll see."

Lawrence was scared, but he always trusted Josie. They got in her car and headed to a local bistro. When they arrived, they sat in the car for a few moments. Lawrence's body was shaking as they entered. 

He pulled his notebook and pen out while Josie ordered them each a soup. When the soup came, Lawrence's page was still blank. Josie didn't pry, just waited. She finished her soup, and he was only a few bites in when they heard a harsh voice to the left of them. It was a man talking to his wife. 

"It was disrespectful to me," the mans voice was sharp, and the woman sitting across from him had her head down. 

"I was just visiting my dad," her voice was low, nearly a whisper, but there weren't many people around so Lawrence and Josie could hear it clearly. 

"I told my friends that you would have everything ready by the time we got there." 

"You didn't ask me, and I told you I was visiting my dad." Her voice was still low but had a tinge of anger interlaced. 

Josie looked at Lawrence, and he put his pen to the page. Josie had heard their grandfather speak to their grandmother, Rose, that way before she left. It wasn't long since they had both grandparents in the picture. Josie had taught Lawrence how to be kind, never letting their grandfather's harsh words taint his mind. 

Finally, the pair left the bistro, sketch in hand. When they got back to the house, Lawrence sat at his easel, and Josie attempted to get the stain off the couch. By the time he was finished, he heard Josie watching a movie. He signed the painting and plopped down next to her.

"Now we wait," Josie said, "But I hate to break it to you, I don't think you will be able to make that asshole disappear." 

Lawrence cracked a smile and turned to face the movie. His eyes grew heavy as the movie dragged on, and he let them shut. When he opened them again, there was a paper on the table reading:

Work called; be back in a few hours!

• Josie

He picked up his phone and checked the time. He had only been sleeping for an hour. Josie wouldn't be back anytime soon. He picked up his phone to check the news, and the most recent headline made his stomach drop. 

4th Person: Gone! 

When he clicked on the article, he saw a picture of the man from the restaurant. 

His eyes welled with tears; a knot formed in his chest. He had found his passion, something he was good at. He couldn't carry on painting, not when this was the outcome, but he had never wanted to do anything else. He had still painted when his grandfather stopped him, but privately, never telling a soul. When he tried to stop, it came out in fits of rage. Robert signed him up for anger management, but it never worked. He needed a brush in his hand. 

Lawrence, heart racing, went to his easel and moved the painting of the man and replaced it with a blank canvas. Instead of the small notebook, he propped up his phone, open to the camera. He could see his face on the small screen. 

He let the brush move. He painted his eyes, recalling how people said they looked like his mothers. He added the freckles that marred his cheekbones. His nose and lips with the pronounced cupid's bow. His hair just brushed the edges of his ears. When he finished, it was just as his sister said: uncanny. But he was still sitting there, only one thing missing. 

Taking a deep breath, he signed the corner, and the paintbrush clattered to the floor. Everything in the room was tinted orange from the sunsetting. 

Hours passed, and Josie returned, panting, "Hey! I just saw the news. What the hell?" 

Her shoes pounded against the floor as she hurried to the living room. The TV was still on, but Lawrence hadn't responded. She picked up her pace and jogged to the office-turned-art studio. 

Her knees hit the floor. She saw Lawrence staring back at her with acrylic eyes. A paper was sitting on the seat in front of the easel. 

If you're reading this, then I was right. Turns out not everything is a coincidence. I'm sorry, I can't handle this, I only wanted to paint. I love you and thank you.

Her breathing was jagged as her tears soaked through the paper, shaking in her unsteady hand. 

She picked up the painting and hugged the last remnants of her brother to her chest as she wept.