She lies curled in her bed, knees drawn to her chin, her arms braced around her legs like she is trying to make herself smaller. As if, if she could make herself small enough, they would leave her alone. On the bedside table, under the ominous glow of a night lamp, her phone continues to buzz irritably, almost daring her to pick it up and see what someone else had said. Is it another horrible name? Another derogatory comment? Perhaps it is one of those pointed jokes that were aimed to be more insulting than funny? Or worse, one of the blazing tirades, with words as sharp as knives, unsatisfied till they tore her down? Her fingers curl as she resists the urge to reach for it.
To the nonchalant viewer perhaps this image would provoke a great deal of pity. Another young girl who has fallen victim to the darker side of the internet. But appearances can be deceptive. She was no innocent lamb led to the slaughter; she was no hapless victim of circumstance. Victims didn’t say the things she did, the slurs she had so spitefully cast into her comments, and her feed. No, this was not circumstance, this was the consequence. All actions have consequences, don’t they? Well, this was hers.
She has begun to cry now. She reaches for her phone and, in between wheezing sobs, types out the umpteenth apology, addressed to no one in particular, a disguised plea for mercy. Can tears redeem her wickedness? And what she had done was nothing short of wickedness, wasn’t it? The voices of the internet have spoken, she is wicked. And her guilt is pointless, her apologies declared insincere. After all, how can her repentance be accepted when it comes only in the face of consequence? She did say those awful things, and hate only breeds more hate. She has made her bed and now she must lie in it. She does deserve this, doesn’t she?
But why should one even look upon this girl’s story? Does she deserve to be looked at? Much less pitied? She had chosen her beliefs and picked her side. Every arrow that came her way was one that she had invited through her words. She should have known better, shouldn’t she? So why do we even pay her any attention when there are others worse off than she is? Why not look at someone innocent, who did not deserve to be mistreated or shouted down or put in this kind of horrible situation? After all, there are countless girls like that as well.
That would be easier, wouldn’t it? It is far more pleasant when we know who to hate. When the conviction of our self-righteousness can point us to the hapless sufferer and we may defend them with all the passion that comes with knowing we are on the right side. It is easier to sympathize with the innocent, and understand their position, isn’t it?
At the same time…perhaps a kinder, softer soul would look at this girl, pitifully wishing the world away, and paint a different picture. A fifteen-year-old girl, young and impressionable and so foolishly spirited. Social media was not filled with such softness though, not in this situation at least. It has its own form of justice, ruthless in its execution. It is all as pretty as a dollhouse until the masks are switched and the haunted house is revealed, with its inescapable horrors.
She wants no part of this nightmare dressed in a sundress. But she sees no exit in sight. Even leaving these sites would only allow her the bliss of ignorance at most. Would the relentless rage stop if she turned her back on it? She just wants to go to sleep now. She switches off her phone, and all the buzzing stops. She has decided she will tackle it in the morning. She tells herself that people will lose their interest by then. After all, she knows how social media works, doesn’t she? She tells herself that the attacks will cease and she will figure out a way to make amends. She gives herself this promise of hope and better tomorrows and closes her eyes.
Elsewhere, in dozens of screens, fingers click away with moralizing malice and intent purpose. They serve their own version of justice. Perhaps they are no better than she is, wolves that came running at the first scent of blood, canine-sharp words, tearing each other down skin from bone. This is after all the truest haunted house, with its hidden faces and disguised demons. The anonymity that inspires confidence often crosses into cruelty. She shouldn’t have made that promise to herself, should she?
Hima Mouli 19/UELA/040
Great write up Hima :))