Fugly Read online

  You’re welcome. I guess the scumbag had it coming.

  Oh, he sure did. Fucking dickhead.

  What did he do?

  She pauses.

  Just shit at work. Fucking bully. Takes advantage of his position.

  I get the feeling Tori is dancing round the edge of the real reason. If she is alluding to what I think she is alluding to, I wish Alexandra had done more. I don’t feel bad about his wife and kids anymore. If anything, I now feel they’re well out of it.

  You did what you had to.

  Yeah. I did. Couldn’t have done it without you, tho. :) <3

  It was nothing. Anything for you.

  Same here. You name it, it’s yours.

  I’ve never had so much fun or been able to sort out my shitty life before I met you.

  So glad you replied to me and didn’t just block me.

  I bite my lip. Wow. My fingers twitch as I dust them over my keyboard. How do I respond? Is this how friends talk to each other? I don’t really know. I’ve never really had what you might call a proper friend, not since primary school. Is this BFF stuff, or is it something more?

  Do I want it to be something more?

  I manage to type:

  Come on :P. Let’s go make some more mischief.

  ^_^ I thought you’d never ask!

  18: #reapwhatyousow

  You know when you fall asleep and your hand goes numb because you’ve been lying on it, and then it comes back to life and it feels like a million wasps are buzzing inside your skin? That’s what the rain outside my window makes my head feel like.

  I peek outside. It’s still dark, but I can see it bounce off the tarmac, sheets of near vertical water sweeping up the road like marching soldiers.

  I don’t think I’m going to go to uni today. Okay, so I know I should, but fuck it. I’m not getting soaked just so I can sit in a lecture hall for an hour and a half going through something I can read in a book.

  I snuggle back into my covers, relishing the thought of not getting up. Maybe I could spend the entire day in my pajamas. Maybe Tori will be in all day, too, and we’ll go play in all of our favorite playgrounds, doing the online equivalent of pushing kids off swings and then punching them in their virtual faces so they stay down.

  I wonder what Tori looks like. I don’t know why, but I think she might look a bit like old-school Lara Croft, all Sloanie yet brassy, with a knowing smile and a pistol at each hip. Or maybe she’s a deadly redhead, like Black Widow. Or a blonde, all shimmer and ice like January Jones. In any case, she’s an assassin, and I adore her for it.

  I wonder if she thinks the same things about me?

  My phone shrieks at me. Bugger. Forgot to switch off the alarm. Shit shit shit. And like Pavlov’s dog, there goes my bladder. Hear the alarm—oh, need a wee! It’s inevitable. Suppose I’ll have to get up.

  The house is quiet. After using the loo, I pad downstairs to get a drink. I could make a hot chocolate and take it back up to bed. Now that would be decadent. Back to bed with my laptop, and by proxy, Tori.

  I shake my head. Got to watch this. Last thing I need is to develop another obsession.

  I fill the kettle and flick it on. There’s one sachet of Galaxy hot chocolate left. Should I leave it for someone else? Should I balls. Sorry, you snooze, you lose in this house. This is my hot chocolate now. I wish we had some squirty cream to go on top of it, like they do in all the coffee shops, but let’s face it—unless it’s Christmas or you’re planning some kinky shenanigans, who has squirty cream in their fridge? Click! Pour. The familiar aroma of chocolate swirls around me, lovely and comforting. Delicious.

  Hot chocolate in hand, I’m about to head back upstairs, but this time the murmur of the TV catches my attention. I peer through the partially opened door. Mum’s still on the sofa, asleep.

  I could leave her. I don’t want my hot chocolate to get cold. But what kind of daughter would that make me? I dither for a second, and then set my drink down on the little table in the hall. I’ll just make sure she’s okay, then go back upstairs.

  No pill packets nearby. A cold, half-drunk cup of tea on the floor next to her. No booze. That’s a good sign. I smile and smooth her hair down. She stirs like a child, and sighs in her sleep. I hope she’s happier there than she is here. She deserves that at least.

  A sudden lump swells in my throat. I swallow hard and blink furiously. It’s so unfair. So unfair for all of us.

  Before my mind can delve deep into this pit of emotion, I squash it down, force the beast back into its box, and sit on the lid so it can’t wriggle out again. At least I can do this now. At least I can wrestle with it. Sometimes, I even beat it. Mostly I’m just restraining it. But at least I don’t cower from it anymore. Well, not much, anyway.

  Back upstairs, to my room. My haven. My sanctuary. Back under the covers, where nothing can hurt me and fantasy rules. I go straight for my laptop. Tori may not be awake yet, but I can still go through our conversations, relive our past glories.

  The internet’s a weird place when it comes to time. It never really sleeps, and not in an insomniac way. It’s like an all-devouring beast, containing worlds within worlds, yet none of them exist, not really. In reality, they’re lines of data, GO TO commands, binary strings of ones and zeros that mean nothing to most people, yet through this, those same people create their lives, their loves—measure their whole self-worth. Whole communities have sprung up around people’s bizarre obsessions, that need to know that no matter what, they are not alone and they are accepted. It takes a very strong person to deny that pull. No wonder people go to virtual war when those communities are threatened. It’s fascinating to watch.

  The rain continues to pound against my window as the dawn lightens the day to a dull gray, and I continue to survey my Empire of Hate. It is magnificent. I’ve been blocked so many times now, it’s unreal. So many accounts suspended, never to darken our doors again. I suppose I’ll be found out one day, exposed, pilloried. Hell, I might even get arrested; ever since they made trolling a hate crime, I’ve been waiting for the knock on the door: “Hello, are you Bethany Soames, also known as, amongst others, MidnightBanshee? Can you come with us, please?”

  But that just makes it so much more exciting. When you’ve spent most of your life living in fear, bearing the brunt of others’ cruelty, terrified of putting a foot wrong just in case anyone notices . . . it’s a release. It’s like sticking a red-hot needle in a festering boil and drawing the pus.

  It’s fucking salvation.

  19: #fiends #Imeanfriends

  I must’ve fallen asleep, because the next time I look at my clock, it’s nearly ten in the morning. The remnants of my hot chocolate are congealing in the mug, and my mouth’s got that horrible, furry quality to it. I feel a brief burst of irrational panic as I wake my laptop up, despite knowing my protocols would’ve logged me out automatically. Yes, I know I was just philosophizing about how the fear of getting caught only adds to the thrill, but I’m not always up for that.

  I decide to be Beth for a bit and check my regular accounts on my phone. Unlike my alter egos, Beth doesn’t get much attention. If I’m lucky, I might have a couple of notifications, maybe a like if I’ve posted something containing cats. But this morning I’ve got loads of messages. All from Amy.

  She’s tagged me into almost everything. Things she finds funny, little psychology jokes, in the comment section of things she thinks I might like. Curious, I check her profile. She has hundreds of friends (compared to my eighty-six, with a good half of them being various family members and friends of my mum), but it all seems a bit, I don’t know, superficial. Cautiously, I like a few of the things she has tagged me into, and give her a lol and a ♥ on things she has posted on my timeline. It’s kind of cute, in a way. I wonder if this is how normal people use social media.

  It doesn’t take long before a Messenger box pops up.

  Heya!!! Where r u? r u ill? Missed u this morning!!!

  Gosh. That’
s a lot of exclamatory enthusiasm for just ten in the morning.

  Hi. Yeah, not feeling great. Headache. Might be migraine.

  Think it’s the weather. Always makes me feel bad.

  Awww!!!! Poor u!!!!

  I have the notes—will give them to u when I see u next.

  Hope u feel better soon!!!

  Me too. Head is banging.

  ☹ That’s not good.

  I was going to ask if u were free on Friday nite?

  Me and a few of the others were going to go to the union, and then maybe out to a club? Thought u could come too!!!

  An icy trickle tracks down my back.

  Out?

  For the evening?

  On a Friday night?

  To a club?

  Immediately, I’m scrambling for every excuse under the sun. My mum’s ill. I’m ill. The dog’s ill. She doesn’t even need to know the dog was put down over a year ago. I’ve broken something. Bradley’s broken something. Fucking hell—say something, anything! This is not a drill!

  I dunno. I don’t have a union card atm.

  Shit. Is that the best I can come up with? I stare at my fingers in horrified disappointment.

  No union card? Why? Did u lose it?

  No, I didn’t lose it. I never picked one up, because I never went to Freshers’ week, because I had no intention of ever going to the Union, despite university being my big excuse to reinvent myself and maybe meet new people who might not hate me on sight because I wear larger clothes than they do, and YES I am aware of how contradictory all that sounds, and YES I know it’s stupid, but fuck it, you want to judge me, come live in my head for five minutes and see how you cope.

  Yeah. I’m always losing stuff.

  Oh, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! Give me a pseudonym, and I can lie and lie and lie without a hint of conscience. Talk to someone I know and who knows me? It’s nothing but guilt. Stupid brain.

  That’s ok, we can apply for another one! And we can go somewhere else tonight, like Sanford’s. Say ull come! Itll be fun!!!

  I now feel physically sick. This is it. In my more fevered moments, this is exactly what I’d dreamed of—an invitation from (sort of) normal people for a (sort of) normal night out, doing all the (sort of) normal things normal people my age do. But, at the same time, the thought of entering a crowded bar makes me want to flee in the opposite direction and never, ever come back.

  I dunno . . .

  Aww, B!!! Please? Ur, like, my BFF here!! I’ll be lonely if u don’t!!

  BFF?

  Surely she’s taking the piss. We’ve only known each other for a couple of days. Been to a few lectures together. I only went to her halls because I really didn’t have much else to do. But she thinks I’m her BFF?

  This is a trap. It has to be. Some kind of prank. A cruel trick.

  Disgustingly, my eyes well up. Fucking hell, I am MidnightBanshee, Destroyer of Online Worlds. I hunt down pretty girls like Amy for breakfast and pick my teeth with the bones of their Instagram accounts.

  And here I am, crying, because someone has called me their friend. I type with shaking fingers . . .

  Ok, I’ll come. If I’m better, of course.

  SQUEEEEE!!!! Of course! But ull be better. U have to be, cos were gonna tear up the town! Watch out TOWN, because Beth and Amy are gonna be in the house! Woop woop!!!!

  Well, I can always say I still feel horrible.

  20: #soggychips

  The rain doesn’t ease up. Tori’s nowhere to be seen, but that’s understandable, given that most proper grown-ups are at work right now. I get out my sketchbook and try to lose myself in that, but my heart isn’t into it, so I decide to switch to terrorizing a Q&A board. People ask such stupid things, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel.

  I potter downstairs to find some lunch, but the cupboards are basically bare.

  In the living room, Mum’s watching TV again. The screen is reflected in her glasses, making it look like her eyes are flickering.

  “Mum?” I say.

  “Hmm?” She doesn’t look at me, just keeps staring at the TV. I purse my lips and swallow. She hasn’t been this bad since Dad left. I suppose it is coming up on a year, and everyone says anniversaries are the hardest things to deal with.

  “Have you sorted the food delivery?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The Tesco delivery. Have you sorted it? We’re getting low on stuff.”

  She slowly drags her attention from the screen and blinks once, twice, three times, like a lizard.

  “I don’t know. I think so?”

  “Shall I have a look?”

  “That would be good.” She stretches her hand out to me, beckoning me to join her on the sofa. It smells faintly rank in the living room, and I am ashamed to admit that I hesitate before sitting next to her. She drapes her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, cradling my head against her chest like she used to when I was small, and starts to rock me. I swallow again, harder this time; it’s all I can do to stop myself from breaking down.

  “My little Bethany,” she croons. “So grown up now. I remember when you were little. You used to climb into my lap and beg me for cuddles. You don’t do that anymore. Too big now. Too old.”

  Her voice hitches and I squeeze my eyes shut. Mum desperately needs to take a shower and change her clothes, but nothing could drag me away from her right now. I wrap my arms around her neck as she cries, piteously, and I cry too, a mixture of grief and anger; grief at my lost mother and my lost father, and anger that the two of them allowed us to get to this point.

  Slowly, times slips by and Mum’s tears subside. I sniff, and the ugly sound echoes through the room. Mum slumps back, spent.

  “There’s cash in the tin,” she whispers. “Go get some chips for lunch, love.”

  Yay. Chips.

  More carbs.

  ***

  I guess I kind of saw it coming. Dad leaving, that is. I don’t think Mum did, though. Despite the arguing and all the “meetings” that meant he had to “work late” yet again, I know, I know, but if you want food on the table yadda yadda yadda . . . I think Mum was too close to the signs to read them accurately. Either that or she ignored them, hoping they’d go away. I think that’s why it hit her so hard.

  Sometimes, I’m a bit ashamed of her. I mean, come on, she should be out every night, guzzling prosecco straight out of the bottle, celebrating her freedom. But Mum’s not like that. She’s too fragile, like a bird who actually liked the safety of her cage. I can’t help but wonder if she’s always been like this but did a better job of hiding it when Dad was around. I remember, when I was little, how she “liked a lie-in.” As a kid, I took that at face value—Mum liked to sleep, simple as that. Same with her never working full-time. She said it was so she could be there for us. Maybe it was actually because she couldn’t cope. I don’t know. I doubt I ever will.

  The chips are soggy, but they still taste good. I love the way the acid of the vinegar catches in the back of my throat, offsetting the fluffy greasiness of the potato in quite a lovely way. Mum doesn’t eat much, so I polish off her leftovers, too. Well, waste not, want not.

  She assures me she’s rebooked the Tesco delivery, but I check, just in case. I also add a few essentials to the list—hey, she’ll never remember, and it’s not much; just a pack of biscuits here, a couple of cheapo multipacks of chocolate there. Doesn’t even amount to a fiver—what’s happiness compared to a fiver? Not sure what we’re going to have for tea tonight. If I can’t scrape something together from the remnants in the freezer, well, there’s always takeaway.

  I make Mum a cup of tea and then slope back off upstairs. I know it’s a long shot given it’s just past one, but I log into Metachat anyway to see if Tori’s around; she’s not, and I swallow down a little bubble of disappointment and switch to my favorite hunting grounds.

  It doesn’t take long for me to get my fix. I’m flying high. No one can touch me up here. I have wings made of lies; I am carried aloft by th
e scorching thermals of their collective hatred.

  And I feel alive.

  Here, I am nothing. I have no flesh. No bones. No blood to shed. I am a binary figure, an abstract force, zeros and ones, data strings, Boolean scripts.

  I am whatever I want to be, and you can’t stop me, no matter how hard you try.

  When you’re nothing, you’re indestructible.

  Freedomchick04’s back. Stupid bitch. She’s full of oh, I was hacked and evil trolls and pity me, for they are trying to destroy me! I laugh. You think that’s it? Give me a break.

  Time to try on some new faces.

  Of course, my old accounts have been blocked or suspended, which might work for the peasants, but for those of us who stalk the dark side, it’s par for the course. It takes less than a quarter of an hour to set up four new accounts, each with their own email accounts and IP addresses, and I’m ready to go hunting again.

  I’m not just after Freedomchick today. A couple of my old targets have been lulled into a false sense of security and need taking down a peg. Plus, there’s a new girl, some stupid slapper who seems to think the world wants to see snaps of her sandy ass as she poses on various beaches. Stupid thing is, the number of followers she’s managed to accrue in a short space of time bears her confidence out. Sometimes I despair.

  The new girl has already managed to gather a pretty hardcore group of worshippers, who go on the defensive straight away, calling me stupid, just jealous, and probably fat and ugly in real life, but I simply don’t care, because no one can say anything for certain; I’m an internet shadow, a ghost, out to haunt you and your idiotic so-called friends. Oh, she loves them all, does she? Yeah, right, even the spotty ones and the fat ones and the creepy ones and the ones who smell funny and the ones with weird hair—yeah, she’d toootally give them the time of day if she met them on one of her oh-so-perfect beaches and wouldn’t look at them like they were pieces of crap she’d just scraped off the bottom of her designer flip-flops.