Colors
Prince Charming
All my life I've wanted to find my prince charming. Someone like the heroes in the storybooks that my mother would read to me before bed. He would be handsome and it would be love at first sight, like in all the romance movies I'd watched. Every night I'd dream of finding him, and finally, I did.
His name was Timothy Kennedy. I met him in third grade and we became best friends from the very moment we said “Hello”. We spent every day together and talked each other to sleep, every night.
The Kennedy’s were the only ones that looked foreign, other than myself, of course, in town. They were Vietnamese-African-American. Timothy was dark skinned and often got picked on for it. He wore his black hair in short dreadlocks. His eyes were such a deep, chocolatey brown, that they looked exotic. He was always taller than me, not that that was saying much because I was a small kid. It wasn’t for another five years that we really realized what we’d meant to one another.
Timothy was the first, and only boy I’d ever said “I love you” to, and that same night we decided to reveal our tattoos to each other.
Every child in Greyson has a tattoo behind their left ear, it’s been a tradition for centuries, so they say.No one at our age knows what it means, and a lot of kids would ask their parents about it, but none of them would ever say. “You’ll find out when you’re older,” They’d say. For some reason, kids thought it was bad to show one another their tattoos, like it was a crime, or like swearing in front of your parents. I didn’t even know what colors my parents were. Timothy was White, though. When he showed me I felt my stomach drop. I was disappointed that it hadn’t been Yellow, like mine.
Two weeks after that day there was an accident at the Kennedy house.
I was on my way over so that we could walk to the park to watch the sunset, but about a block away I noticed the smoke. I ran as fast as I could, but it was too late.
The Fire Department had put out the fire, and one of them held my shoulders while I punched him, trying to get to the ashen shell of a house. Tears streamed down my face and I screamed for Timothy, hoping that maybe, by some miracle, he’d come to me. But everything was gone. The house I’d spent so many nights in, had so many memories in, had found a home in, and used to hold the boy that I loved, was nothing but a skeleton of what it used to be. And no one had survived.
His name was Timothy Kennedy. I met him in third grade and we became best friends from the very moment we said “Hello”. We spent every day together and talked each other to sleep, every night.
The Kennedy’s were the only ones that looked foreign, other than myself, of course, in town. They were Vietnamese-African-American. Timothy was dark skinned and often got picked on for it. He wore his black hair in short dreadlocks. His eyes were such a deep, chocolatey brown, that they looked exotic. He was always taller than me, not that that was saying much because I was a small kid. It wasn’t for another five years that we really realized what we’d meant to one another.
Timothy was the first, and only boy I’d ever said “I love you” to, and that same night we decided to reveal our tattoos to each other.
Every child in Greyson has a tattoo behind their left ear, it’s been a tradition for centuries, so they say.No one at our age knows what it means, and a lot of kids would ask their parents about it, but none of them would ever say. “You’ll find out when you’re older,” They’d say. For some reason, kids thought it was bad to show one another their tattoos, like it was a crime, or like swearing in front of your parents. I didn’t even know what colors my parents were. Timothy was White, though. When he showed me I felt my stomach drop. I was disappointed that it hadn’t been Yellow, like mine.
Two weeks after that day there was an accident at the Kennedy house.
I was on my way over so that we could walk to the park to watch the sunset, but about a block away I noticed the smoke. I ran as fast as I could, but it was too late.
The Fire Department had put out the fire, and one of them held my shoulders while I punched him, trying to get to the ashen shell of a house. Tears streamed down my face and I screamed for Timothy, hoping that maybe, by some miracle, he’d come to me. But everything was gone. The house I’d spent so many nights in, had so many memories in, had found a home in, and used to hold the boy that I loved, was nothing but a skeleton of what it used to be. And no one had survived.
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