“Hey, numbnuts, you know what tomorrow is, right?” His braying laugh reverberated through my sensitive ears.
“Fine. Freakazoid! You blue-eyed and green-eyed freakazoid!”
I stood there hyperventilating, my tiny chest rising in faster sequences, my face flushing deeper than the deepest aubergine. I felt a tiny pop, then a scurrying through my skin. Odd.
“You’re a freak with the Y2K virus. You’ll be dead tomorrow, your skin flayed and stinking!”
The next morning all that remained of my bully was a bloody, pulpy mess, his pajamas coated with traces of extraterrestrial gunk.
Who’s laughing now?
Copyright © 2016 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Microcosms: