Tommy sees my eyes, sees me looking at him. He sees me seeing him as he slaps me and calls me a Dirty Queer. His friends laugh. They spit. One glob of phlegm ruins what they think is my mascara. Those lines are crafted in the language of the stars — Betelgeuse, to be precise.
Some of us are born of stars. Betelgeuse sees through my eyes. He sees the rage. But he glows a hue of red, which mimics a smile, and which turns crimson. Tommy sees my eyes turn red and thinks he’s seeing things. He sees a lot of things helped by the bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey and a six pack of Lion lager.
My red eyes will be the last thing he sees. Heat will be the last thing he feels. 20,000 degrees Fahrenheit spews through my eyes. Betelgeuse enters Earth from 650 light years away and does what a star does best — Consume.