What Does Ismael Have A Value Of Nothing

Michael entered his room. His mother was drunk. His father was out. His sister was taking one of her long baths. It was untouched. A collection of short stories lay at the foot of his nightstand made from fake bamboo. On top of it laid clutter: a one dollar bill, a ring he had been given by a beggar for the exchange of banana bread, a glass of stale water, a pencil with which he underlined his favourite quotes, and a couple of used tissues which had gone from pearl white to off white, withered with time. His sheets were hanging half on, half off the bed, which rested clumsily in the middle of the room. Upon the bed rested an amalgamation of cushions of varying sizes and colours; a red one with several green stains, a blue and white stripped
But he never valued it the way Ismael did. Well, it was about time he did. Ismael didn’t like what Michael liked, so Michael had to do what Ismael could never possibly do himself, be selfless, considered, and reciprocate interest.
Michael loved Ismael like he loved the number zero. Because zero has a value of nothing, how can anything have a value of nothing and still be of value? Ismael was like that, full of value, and full of nothingness. Ismael = zero.
As he stood across the room, caressing the painting with his sight, still feeling like its position could be adjusted somehow, Michael let himself drift back to the memories of the man that had entrusted him with this gift. His grandfather was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed man Michael would visit in the shelter his children had so kindly abandoned him in, like parents dropping off their kids at camp for an entire month, only this was the reverse, the kids were dropping off the parent, and months turned into years. Unfortunately years never turned into a decade. Or fortunately, depending on which angle you looked
Food was always going to be sparse, we were always going to be cold and you could only carry so much gold on you without calling attention – the bad kind. You see a painter will make love with a canvas only once. And once the piece is signed you have before you a singular piece of art that cannot be reproduced – like those cheap Warhol prints. A print has no life, a print is emotionless, a print is like a landscape without hills or rivers – just a flat piece of land with nothing but monotonous fields of weeds that look pretty but don’t demand attention. I wrapped that painting in three layers of paper and tied it together with string I got from the good will. My hands had blisters on them – they were infected by the time I reached American soil. But I never let go – I couldn’t bare the thought of never resting my eyes upon it again. Sometimes, things are worth suffering