Blinding Light

“I’ve seen you naked,” smirked some random kid brushing passed Mick, probably on his way to maths or stick his tongue down his year 9 girlfriends throat in too public a place.

“Bullshit. You’re a friggin liar.”

“I’m serious man. It’s everywhere; Jack emailed it to everyone,” he smiled back.

Mick’s gut twisted at least seven hundred and twenty degrees. He was sure it had just split and fallen out the arse of his pants. Blood drained from his face and the corridor walls sped past him as he stood still.
Half of him was petrified – the leering dagger eyes of kids that passed him in the hall, sharp with that mocking intensity only felt in schools.

The other half was racing along the hall - just keeping up with the walls that were threatening to outpace him and drag him to his death like in one of those old Ben Hur movies with the chariots and horses, all gnashing teeth and saliva.
Mick just managed to dodge the daggers and break free of the chariot towing him along in time to duck into an adjoining corridor.

Breathless, he slumped against the cold plastered wall. Fricking Jack. I hate that bastard. I swear he’ll wish he hadn’t done that, the piece of shit.
Continuing down the stairs and kicking open the doors to the quadrangle he was hit square in the face by the blinding light of the 10.30am summer sun.

He cursed the blinding rays.

Just as his eyes were recovering, Mick, through his squinty daze, turned toward his left to see Jack sitting under a tree tapping away on his laptop, giving him the smuggest wave he’d seen in a long time.

Frickin Jack, you dirtbag.

He turned and walked towards the dunnies to plan his next move.

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