So just in case you were in any doubt: I am an internet troll.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking. A troll? Really? After all your complaints about being judged? You spend most of your life seeking the approval of others, but you go online with the express intention of shaming people? And to that, I say yes, yes again, uh-huh, and I know it sounds mad but yes.
I am not alone. No one ever admits to trolling, despite it being everywhere. And don’t get me wrong, if I was with a big group I’d deny it too, but here, I’ll admit it freely. I am a troll. And despite the fact that I’ve only been at it a few months, I’m a good one, too. It’s fun. I take an awful lot of pleasure smacking down people who, in real life, have everything. Y’see, I specialize in trolling those girls who like to take way too many selfies, in far too little clothing. I mean, what do they expect? Mass adoration? Stupid little tramps have it coming, if you ask me.
Oh, don’t look like that. Wondering why I do it. Thinking I should show some empathy. No one shows me any empathy when they see me walking down the street. No one’s kind to me when they realize I can’t wear the latest fashions because they’re all designed for rakes. No one gives me a free pass when they see me eating my lunch. Oh no, it’s all fat bitch and look at the state of it and it should be illegal to make me watch that, right at me—not words on a screen, but speech, right into my ears, into my brain, scorching itself onto my very soul. I’ve been branded by that word. FAT. That’s all I am now in the real world. No one cares that I like drawing, that I’m good with animals, that I have an eye for taking good photos. No one’s interested in my strengths. Because the minute they have to see the whole person and not just the squishy, wobbly outer coverings, they’re forced to realize that I’m just like them, with thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams, and that the weight of their hatred is slowly crushing those things out of me.
So yeah, I like trolling. It’s payback, baby.
On the internet, I can be anyone. At first, I joined a couple of art sites, tried posting my drawings, but I was largely ignored. I got four, maybe five likes if I was lucky—which, compared to the five hundred likes other artists got for bad sketches of scantily-clad anime characters, is pretty atrocious. But with trolling, people pay attention. I can sit in my room and play virtual dress-up to my heart’s content. No one knows the real me. People ask, but I’ll never tell. The minute I tell, the spell will be broken.
Right now, I’m about twelve different people. I’ve had to write all my alter egos down, just so I can keep track of them all. It’s tremendous fun. I like the sense of control, the power that it brings. You can trap people, play with them the way a cat might with a cornered mouse. In real life, I’m the mouse, but in the digital world, I’m the cat, and woe betide anyone scurrying into my realm, because believe me, I have claws.
I’m currently tormenting a couple of wannabe starlets on YouTube. Since YouTube is already a cesspool of scum and villainy, it means I can really let rip. I’m tag-teaming myself right now, using sockpuppet accounts, and the page views are racking up. Those stupid bitches should be thanking me, if anything. Without me and my alter egos, they’d still be on three likes. Okay, so now they probably struggle to sleep after all the bile I’ve stirred up, but hell, that’s a small price to pay for their coveted internet fame. If they didn’t want to be told that their over-tanned asses looked like two oiled-up pigs trying to get out of a hammock, they shouldn’t have pasted those stupid twerking videos in the first place—
My laptop pings. Oh, no. What’s this? A DM? This is the only time I worry. Not a lot, because it’s usually just someone telling me to lay off whatever bitch I’m savaging at the time—or someone trying to turn the tables on me. The delete button is my best friend in these situations—it’s no fun to fight a private insult war. And engaging over DM would somehow feel more personal, make me more vulnerable. Even though I have twelve layers of armor (and counting) between me and the real world, I do harbor this little fear that one day, someone is going to pierce all of them and draw blood.
Hey
Yeah, they all start like that. Should I click? Or should I just delete? I should probably just delete. Mustn’t tempt fate.
My finger hovers over the dustbin icon, but I don’t press it. I don’t really believe in premonitions or any of that new-agey bullshit, but something’s telling me this one is different. I don’t know why, or what it is. Call it curiosity.
I click the link.
Hey
Brutal takedown. Love it. You really have some claws. Just thought you should know.
Ninjanoodle471
Right. Okay. That’s . . . unexpected. I’ve had people agreeing with me before, but they usually do it on the thread, not in a DM. My spidey-senses are all over the place. Is this a trap? It feels like a trap. I kind of want to back out, but good old curiosity is getting the better of me. Who is this person? What do they want? Because everybody wants something. Altruism doesn’t exist on Planet Internet. So what’s Ninjanoodle471’s angle? The downfall of MidnightBanshee? Should I tag-team them with one of my sockpuppet accounts? Or would that be showing too much of my hand? They might even realize it was a sockpuppet, and then they could out me in two seconds flat.
No. Leave it.
I know what you’re thinking. When did I get this paranoid? Yeah, well, take away the armor and I’m just Fat Beth again. And I don’t want to be Fat Beth here, the one place where I feel some measure of control, some iota of respect. I am a warrior here, chaotic evil to the bone.
I click out of the message without answering.
Downstairs, the front door slams, which means Brat’s home. Oh, joy. Younger brothers are such dickheads.
Another clatter, this time from the kitchen. Mum must be trying to make dinner. An all-too-familiar queasiness twists my guts, one that makes me log out of my many and varied accounts. Online I may be a monster, but in real life, I can’t watch my mother struggle.
I heave myself off my bed and try to tiptoe downstairs. Bratley’s in his bedroom now, killing something in a video game. It’s kind of all he does now.
As predicted, Mum’s in the kitchen, wrestling with a tin opener. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. I sigh. Same routine every day. Something out of a tin, Mum crying. It’s times like this when I really despise my dad. He ditched Mum when he found a younger model, and now it’s all sports cars and holidays for him while we—
No. I take in a deep, cleansing breath. Can’t go there now. Getting angry about Dad won’t do any good. Not when Mum needs my help. I gently take the tin opener and free the chopped plum tomatoes myself.
“What were you thinking of making?” I ask, mainly out of a need to say something.
Mum shrugs. “I’m—I’m not sure,” she quavers. “There’s tuna in the cupboard.”
I hold in a sigh. There’s always tuna in the cupboard—it’s the one source of cheap protein that doesn’t go off. Mum stumbles back to the living room, and I manage to turn the tuna and tomatoes into a pasta bake.
Carbs for the win.