Not The Same

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Ellis demanded.

Scott hugged his knees to his chest. “I didn’t start anything. I was doing my share of the ambulance check and he whacked me.” He had a black eye and a split lip, but he still wasn’t hurting nearly as much as Graham was.

“That boy-band fag was givin’ me lip,” Graham said. His voice was muffled behind the handkerchief he had pressed to his broken nose.

Scott’s eyes blazed. “I’m not a fag, and I wasn’t in a boy-band. I’m sick and tired of taking crap from you guys about what I used to do.” He stood up, scooped up his guitar. “You know what? I’m damn proud of the music I made with my brothers. I don’t care what you people think - I’m a good musician and nothing you say will ever change that.”

“I don’t care what you used to do,” Ellis said sharply. “I care about you getting along with the crew.”

“I haven’t been stepping on anyone’s toes,” Scott said. “I pitch in and do my share and don’t complain.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Graham said. “You’re not one of us.”

Scott leaned in so they were almost nose-to-nose. “You don’t know what it’s like to be me.”

“And you don’t know what it’s like to be me either,” Graham shot back.

“I’ll tell you what,” Scott said, “when you figure out how to make it so when I close my eyes I don’t hear people screaming and dying, we can call it a mile in each other’s shoes.”

“We’re EMTs - we see people die every day,” Graham said.

“Death,” Scott said softly, “is not the same as murder.”

(288 words)