Storm

CHAPTER ONE

Grey
7:51 am
Tuesday, October 3rd

DAY 1

A blank canvas. As paint strokes each pixel, an individual picture is born. But what happens when you run out of pixels and the paint that once was on a blank slate, drips off, and onto the floor below? An answer - the only answer; A storm is created.

Just another day. Nothing too special goes on around here. We have Laura the grime-grisled crossguard, Matthew the way too friendly (and I mean way too friendly) student-assistant principal, and we have me. I, myself, the broken-boned lamb chop of the school. The day usually starts off with a round about 8 missed alarms. Then, I'm scolded out of bed and half-deadly forcing myself out the door. Followed by my fishbowl eyes crossing the cooled tar and nearly getting deflated five feet away from school.

“Storm!” cautioned Laura, “Di Mi! I should be paid for how many times I've saved your life!” she snarls.

I remain silent, just gesturing a nod. I don't blame her for saying that, I'm a… how do you put it?... an accident-prone child.

“Hey there, Grey! You look super happy today!” Matthew waved faintly while radiating a very creepy grin.

“Oh… hey… Matt…” I darted towards the door before anything out of the usual happens.

“Mr. Grey Storm! I see you’d like to be out of the ordinary…”.

Out of the ordinary? Me?

“Dress code is as follows, Mr. Storm.” He hisses once more. Mr. Oreves is a particular young man. He's a particular principal. Though I think he bought his way into the school board, this mid 20s looking guy probably got no love from his mother. He's always grumpy, never shines a grin, and talks in this monotone voice where every third word is stretched. A quite odd lad, but interesting nonetheless. Mr. Oreves always walks in with a gold tie and a black suit. He may have the looks, but he definitely does not have everything else.

I nodded, followed by an agreement that it wouldn't happen again. Clearly, it was gonna happen again, and we both knew it. I reached my locker, punching the combo before I arrive late to art class. The metal door swung open and I scrambled to get my books in hand. As I backed up, I feel my back hit something followed by a clang to the ground. I lash around.

“I'm sorry,” she says while tumbling her binders into order. “Well? Are you going to help Me?” I didn't catch myself staring. I panicked, but to her I remained silent. “Hello?” she gets to her feet. I couldn't stop following my eyes in her direction. Everywhere she moved, my eyes followed. “You're not like other boys, are you?” she winces.

“I guess not?” I say without rethinking my sentence twice.

“So, he talks…”