Oliver's Home For Story Ideas

Monochrome

I can hear their whispers in my ears.

Like bugs in my ears.

It's almost worse than when they were just shouts.

All around me, it's all anyone can talk about.

Me.

It.

Luka Sprite.

The Car.

Gilbert Roman.

I saved his life.

Big deal.

You don't hear about hero stories from small towns where nothing matters.

Unless the person that you saved matters.

Or in this case, the person I saved.

Because of course he's the son of a movie star.

Henry Roman.

Right up there with the big leagues. Probably chums up next to Pedro Pascal and Keira Knightley over a bottle of champagne whenever he feels like it.

So now

naturally

I'm super cool now.

As if the people who are praising me like God haven't been humiliating me, hate-criming, (and on one occasion attempting to murder me), for the past six years.

I live in a small town.

A town where being gay is just as bad as being black.

And I'm both.

so like

Yeah.

It's like a flip of a switch.

"Get the fuck out of our town-!"

You can't go anywhere down the halls of this stupid school without hearing that word at least seven times.

And our parents say we're the problem.

But now it's all-

"Luke! My man! Nice to see you today."

My name isn't even Luke.

I hate people.

"Get out!"

"Fucking mute."

"Faaaaaairy!"

are now suddenly-

"I heard about what you did!"

"So cool of you!"

"Let me buy you lunch!"

People are about just as fake as the boob job Mandy Sommers got on a dare last summer.

It makes me want to crawl in a hole.

Or punch a wall.

I'm going to explode.

___

"Oh my God!" I hear my mother's shout from all the way down the hall and through my closed door. Which isn't a surprise. The walls are as thin as paper. I set down my phone beside me on my bed, throw back the covers, and lift myself out of bed.

Almost immediately, I have to stop myself from throwing up.

Jesus Christ, okay.

Here we go.

It's just another day.

Left right left right left right leftrightleftrightleft-

Then I'm in the living room, fresh clothes on my body. My mouth tastes like ass. I didn't brush my teeth the night before and the last thing I'd eaten was a cherry flavored jolly rancher.

Go figure.

"Andy, look!" My mother exclaims, referring to the thing that is called my step father, sitting n the chair, directly in front of the television in which she is pointing.

He's too busy reading the paper.

Ironically with the same headline that scans across the flatscreen.

Local Boy Saves Life of Big Time Movie Star's Son

Someone punch me in the face.

I watch the screen blankly review the story, once again. It's all that's been on the news for a week.

My vision is in black and white.

I can't feel anything.

It's like there's someone else sharing my body, taking care of it when I can't.

It was that person who saved Gilbert Roman.