A short story I've been meaning to write for a while.

He had been preparing for tonight for weeks. Planning, sketching drawing, thinking. Tonight would be his night to leave a mark on this city, his chance to be immortalized on the city itself, to never be forgotten by those who saw his sign, his calling card. This was his last desperate attempt to be noticed by those who didn’t even know he existed. He gathers up his paints. Blue, black, red, orange. He arranges them carefully to fit them all in. He dresses well. Combat boots, denim jeans, a blue t-shirt and a dark red hoodie. Grabbing his respirator, he heads out, unsure whether he’ll return to this apartment he calls home. Determined, he walks for blocks, the streetlights bathing him in their orange incandescence. As each light passes overhead, he almost seems to glow, an urban messiah, a messenger, here to deliver his final requiem to the tired masses below. A light drizzle begins to fall. He feels the rain hit his face, every drop like a kiss from a beautiful woman. Puddles splash as he presses on to his virtual studio. The city is the canvas for this L.A. Lautrec. The El rumbles on by overhead, shaking the ground beneath him. Unfazed by the rain, the rumbling trains, the ever present sirens of this concrete ocean, he keeps on, knowing his time of greatness is nigh. He crosses bridges spanning different rivers. Rivers of water, rails, people, cars. Storefronts line his route, some boarded up, some open, many with their neon lights on. He never looks up to view the buildings above. The seas of glass and sheet metal, the old brick and mortar structures, the two different centuries mingling overhead. Focused, he makes his way through back alleys and across rooftops, unknowingly viewing the side of Chicago few get to see, making his way to his spot. Cars flash by, their tail lights leaving red trails in the wet air. He reaches his canvas. He climbs up the fire escape like a monkey navigating the trees of a jungle, quickly ascending, as if to escape the mundane down below. He reaches the top and makes his way to the edge, then looks down upon his spot. Knowing this is where he will break away from the masses of regular people mingling twelve stories below him. A gust of wind catches his jacket, flaring it out like a fire out a window. The chilled November air pierces his clothing, but he doesn’t care. He knows there’s no backing out now. Slinging his bag firmly on his back, and putting on his respirator, he zips up his jacket and puts up his hood. He grabs the rusting iron framework of the billboard emblazoned on top of the decrepit building it firmly stands upon and begins to climb its back. He reaches the platform and drops his bag next to him. He slips on a pair of fingerless gloves and opens his bag, grabbing the first color in his masterpiece. The cap comes off with a solid pop, and he lets it fall out of his hand. “This is it.” He says. He sprays his first long line, and he relaxes, and lets the art spill forth from within. The can sputters, and quits. He tosses it aside, letting it roll off the billboard to the ground, now thirteen stories below, with a resounding clink. Without taking his eyes off his work, he reaches for another can, and does the same thing. Sixteen times he repeats this arduous process, until he is satisfied with his result. He steps back to admire the fruits of his labor, but he neglects to check his footing. He inadvertently steps on an empty can, and slips. Down, down, he falls. He knows he will die as he does, but he can finally see his efforts in their glory. ‘Ascension’, blazoned across the billboard, for all of Chicago to see. And for a moment, he feels at peace, and laughs at the irony of his situation as he plummets toward his demise. He smiles and laughs as tears stream from his closed eyes, ready for his untimely death.