Gay is the new black, Creative project

Gay is the New Black

The bullying began yesterday, yet yesterday threats were inevitable.  Boys will be boys, every dog has his day, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.  Times are more inceptive, but he who stands alone suffers before obtaining acceptance.

 

“Damn, look how tight those jeans are!  He wearing them nut huggers.  What the fuck, do he shop in the girls section?”

“Get fuck out of here.  We don’t want you near us.”

 

 “Why are you like that?                                 You’re going to hell!”

 “Its Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve,                 fag.”

He pursues the exit hoping the ignorant guys would leave him be.

“Why you running?  Them homos on TV always fighting for their rights and you’re being a punk.  So you not gone say shit?”

The ring leader presses against the victim blocking his departure.  Fear builds within the boy, afraid for his wellbeing, his rights, his life.  The bully grabs his backpack, turns it up, pouring, and revealing the boy’s coveted items.

“Look at his CD collection.  Beyoncé, Madonna, Taylor Swift, and Miley Cyrus.  You should listen to some real music instead of those bitches.”

The boy sinks onto the floor tiles reaching for his items scattered about.  After obtaining about half he looks up asking, “Why do you care, interested?”

 

The leader pulls away bursting laughs of hatred.  The side kick boasts forward with a forceful slap across the kneeling boy.  Tears of frustration form a congregation blurring his awareness.  The ring leader has an epiphany when tears convert into blood. 

“Yo, let’s get outta here before someone sees us!”  The gang disperses into banishment.

“Wash yo hands before you catch something, dog.”

The ring leader separates from the rest, rushing away, although guilt chases behind.  He follows his daily routine shoveling his iPhone buds into his ear blasting new rap hits.  Awaiting the bus to arrive he lights his black and mild irritating the studious crowd around.  He bobs his head back and forth feeling himself also attempting to forget.  Images of the poor defensive less boy deflects off of the wind stopper into his conscious.  Remorse overpowers his pores before they discharge with relieving smoke. 

The bus arrives downtown.  The drive collects the fare before allowing a fair departure.  The bus goes through the urban areas with crack heads steeling the population, crime boasting the weekly news, abandon homes substantially increasing, and where dreams cease to exist.  It stops a few times for the less fortunate to exit before entering the privileged suburban districts.  With greener grass, street pavements tamed, elegant homes, happier and brighter folk. 

The teenage boy enters a life in which he hides from his friends, who suffer poverty.  He goes to the local market aiming for another smoke to suppress.  Upon approaching the door he observes an alluring blonde who draws him in like a succubus.  Like any boy his age he yearns for her attention, her presence, her acceptance, her number.  After devouring a mint, he moves in for the kill, by dashing for the door.  He opens it for her allowing her in first. 

She smiles.

“Can I get a thank you?”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“Whoa, who was talking to you?”

“Her boyfriend, boy.”

 

The hefty male appears from the rear.  A group of boys shovel him from inside onto the street.  They shake their heads with pure content.  He struggles to keep his composure.  The boy desires to flee hoping for survival for hitting on the wrong girl.

“Why are you out here?  Shouldn’t you be in the jungle like the rest?”

“You got a little freedom now you feel the need to take our girls, too?”

 

The ring leader presses against the victim blocking his departure.  Fear builds within the boy, afraid for his wellbeing, his rights, his life.  The bully grabs his backpack, turns it up, pouring, and revealing the boy’s coveted items.

The boy struggles to grasp his items scattering around the parking lot.  Eerie how familiar this event seems.  The posse goes around exchanging chances for bodily blows onto the victim causing his jaw to bleed.

The posse splits into the street leaving physical wounds and pride scorching his eyes.  No one bothers to help, no one cares for his wellbeing, no calls the police, why should they since he is an outsider of their norms.  The tears and blood leave him paralyze in absent of surrealism in the severity.

A hand extend over him when a soft voice commands, “Here, get up.”

At last, yearning for the girl he risked his wellbeing for, has come to aid him.  However, that remain a fantasy beyond truth.  The boy with a blackened eye disguises humor with concern.  The newly wounded boy rises with the aid of his own victim.  He remains still dumbfound in questioning the motives of his support. 

“Why do you care, interested in helping me?”

“Karma was served.  What happened to you wasn’t much different from what you did to me.”

“Look man, I’m sorry for…”

“Save it.  We go through the same things, I don’t know why I’m your enemy when all I want to do is live my life, my way.”

“Understood.”

“Apology accepted.  Just tell your friends to back off.”

“Bet.”