Today I’m going to try writing to a prompt, since I have so much trouble coming up with any ideas. Today’s prompt: You run into the person who bullied you at high school.
Mick Clarke was the last person I expected to see walking out of the bank. At first I wasn’t sure it was him – I hadn’t seen him since he’d left our high school, three years before I did. But as I approached him, I realised it really was him. That arrogant look he’d always had that told everyone he was completely sure of himself and that you meant nothing to him could never be mistaken. I cringed inwardly at the sight of him.
Mick Clarke. The boy that had made my first years of high school the worst hell imaginable. And here he was, walking towards me.
I wanted to run away.
I’d not thought about him for years. He’d been the ringleader of a group of boys in his year that delighted on picking on younger kids who were the easy targets. You know the ones: the shy kids, the socially awkward ones, the ones who stood out in a painful way. The kids who weren’t cool, and never would be. They’d been his targets and there was at least one in every grade.
I’d been a victim on several fronts. I was painfully quiet and shy. I was very short and I had grown almost comically large breasts that were completely out of proportion to the rest of me. I was a cartoon caricature waiting to happen. I’d also never had much to do with boys, so in my confused teenage mind, I associated any attention from boys as a sign they liked me.
I’d come to Mick Clarke’s attention very early on. Standing out in the way I did had made it inevitable.