Turns out, there’s a whole ’nother level to internet mischief that has blithely passed me by. Controlling someone else’s account is like holding their life in the palms of your hands, and then clapping. Loudly.
It doesn’t take Tori long to take control of Freedomchick04’s account. Oh, don’t be so sniffy. She likes to pose in tiny shorts and cropped tops, holding large guns. She’s basically asking for it.
Once she’s in, Tori spends a gleeful half an hour posting all of her private pictures, including a veritable treasure trove of nude shots. Unsurprisingly, she’s incredibly flexible. By the time Tori’s finished with her, I’m laughing so much I’m kind of regretting my pizza binge, and all thoughts of perverts and dead mums have fled.
We finish the evening by creating a new Twitter account and shoving the pictures on there, which causes an absolute shitstorm. Freedomchick is going to have a hell of a time clearing up that mess.
That was fun!
I know, naff, but I can’t help it.
I thought you’d like it. :) It’s sooo much more fun when you’re calling all the shots. All we have to do now is wait. Freedomtwat is going to shit when she sees what we’ve been up to!
Oh, she’s an imp, that’s for sure. I wonder what she looks like. I shake my head to stop those thoughts in their tracks. That’s not how this works. I might consider her a friend, but staying faceless is staying safe when it comes to the internet. Hell, why do you think I called myself Amy? Though that particular name is a curious choice. After all, I barely know her—
The front door clicks as a key is turned in the lock, followed by a slam that reverberates through the house.
I glance at my laptop. Nearly ten. Brat knows the score. He might think he’s a grown-up now, but staying out after nine is still a no-go. Eight o’clock was my latest curfew right up until I was sixteen, and I obeyed it. Okay, so I hardly had reason to challenge it, but that’s not the point. If I had to obey the rules, then so does he. I psych myself up, taking in a deep breath and retying my dressing gown cord. I loom in the living room doorway, waiting for him to pass by.
“You’re late,” I say.
He narrows his eyes at me.
“Mum’s worried.”
“No she isn’t. She’s fucking drugged up to the eyeballs most of the time. If she cared, she’d be here, not you.”
He’s got a point.
“All the more reason for you to do as you’re told,” I volley back. “The last thing she needs to worry about is where you are. Oi! I’m talking to you!”
He saunters past me and up the stairs. “Fuck off. You’re not the boss of me.”
Again, he has a point. I mean, some people might argue that as a (technically) responsible adult, I am the one in charge. But I’m not. And I don’t want to be.
Brat smirks, and I curl my lip at him. He knows it. He knows it all. This is to hurt me as much as Mum; he just wants to burn the world to see what might happen next, and I want to punch him for it, because deep down that’s what I want to do, but I don’t have the guts, so instead I just burn myself with food and spite.
“You’re a selfish little asshole, you know that?” I hiss.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He slinks into his bedroom. Seconds later, there’s an earth-shattering boom as he un-pauses his game. I close my eyes, my teeth grinding in unison with the rat-a-tat-tat of virtual guns.
***
Everything ok?
You all right?
Amy? You there?
I can’t help but feel touched by Tori’s concern when I get back to my laptop. Unfortunately, what I found hilariously daring a moment ago now seems a bit cheap and, dare I say it, mean.
Yeah. Dickhead bro to deal with.
Ah. Younger?
You know it. Oh well.
We all have our crosses, huh?
Yeah . . . I know. You wanna talk?
Nah. Can’t be bothered to waste time thinking about it, tbh. Life’s too short.
You’re not wrong there, hun.
Still, if you need a shoulder, you know where I am, right?
Something involuntary catches in the back of my throat.
Yeah. Thanks, hun.
No problemo. That’s what friends are for, after all.
Friends? I bite my bottom lip.
You’re the best
I try. ;)
It’s weird, seeing this side of Tori. From her public personas, you’d never guess she had it in her to be nice. We chat for a bit longer, trading cat videos mainly, until she announces she has to get up early for work tomorrow and should probably hit the hay.
I don’t bother tidying away the pizza boxes. Fuck it. Let the scene of devastation fester for a bit. Instead I wrap myself in my favorite blanket and try to drown myself in mindless reality TV.
It’s kind of wonderful. These people talk weird, they stand weird, and their hair is always weirdly shiny and it’s great, like I’m David Attenborough studying a new species: Here we see the Essexius vacuousi’s mating ritual. Observe the male peacocking with many colorful tattoos, as his orange target preens to indicate her receptiveness. The intensity of the orange is directly proportional to the thickness of the eyebrows, and they relate to how easily the female will engage in the mating ritual. Mating grounds are often spontaneous and sometimes unsanitary, but the back of a car in a nightclub’s car park is considered optimal.
I snicker to myself and snuggle back. Mum sleeps here so often there’s a really comfortable hollow, if you just shift this . . . and wiggle your butt cheek there . . . ahh. Life goals.
I let the drowsiness infect me. So nice. So—yawn—cozy. My eyelids droop, and I allow all the do you know what I mean?s lull me to sleep.
The next thing I know, there’s a stamping on the stairs, followed by a whoosh of cool air as the living room door is flung open. I jerk my head up. I haven’t a clue what’s on the telly now—some kind of shopping channel trying to sell me some crappy gym-thing—so it must be the early hours of the morning. My neck’s stiff, and I feel queasy. Ahh, the price you pay for Pizza Binge.
“I’m hungry,” Bratley says and picks up a pizza box. “Just one slice? Did you fucking eat all of this?”
I try not to cringe and instead close my eyes.
“You fat bitch!” he snarls. “Two fucking pizzas? Fuck me.”
“If you’d got home at a sensible time, then I would’ve shared—”
“But instead I didn’t, so rather than sticking one in the fridge, you fucking ate it? Fuck. Hey fatty boom boom, no wonder no one fucking wants you.”
“Will you stop swearing,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Fuck off. Will you get your fat ass off the fucking sofa for once?”
He’s doing this to rile me up. I know it. And the sad thing is, it’s working. Shame reeks out of my every pore.
He makes those piggy noises I hate so much, and the urge to punch him becomes unbearable.
“Stop it,” I hiss.
“Little Miss Rotunda. Biiiig Beth! Ten ton Bethy! Will do anything for a Mars bar.” He makes a wanking gesture at his crotch. “Nosh on that—”
“Fuck off!” I scream.
He laughs and waves his phone at me. On the screen is a picture of me, asleep, surrounded by pizza boxes. “You wait until I tell my mates about this.”
I turn cold. Because some of his mates are the younger brothers of Tormentors of Schoolmas past. Will I ever escape? He gives me a vicious smile. He’s none too skinny himself, but no one questions him. He’s quite tall, and his flab makes him look intimidating rather than just plain fat. He can get away with it, because he’s a boy. I can’t, because I’m not.
“Ta-ta, Fatty!” He wiggles his fingers at me in the parody of a wave and saunters back out of the room, knowing full well he’s won.