Behind the Screen

A Short Story Inspired by Donkeyskin, by Caroline Beuley

Firstly, thank you to Allah, who makes everything in our lives possible. I know that I would be nothing without You, ya Rabb. Thank you for everything you’ve given me.

Thank you to all 92 of you who have taken the time to subscribe to me, and read my stories and letters. I thank Allah for all of you so much. Thank you for making my dream come true.

To

SabrGirl

, and everyone else on this app who has been harassed by Diddy Nisar (still can’t get over how funny that name is) and the like. This story is for you.

Finally, to

Caroline Beuley

. Thank you for making me feel understood through your words, and being able to have someone who loves fairy tales as much as I do. All my life, I always felt alone in writing my stories, because they were all retellings with main characters just like me in some way. I hope you know that even though I never met you before, I am so grateful for every interaction we’ve had online. That is why I am happy to say that I am so happy I got to meet you :).

---

~Bismillah~

Please answer me.

Please just do this just this once.

I won’t bother you again, I promise.

That’s the promise you made last time, I want to type. You’re a liar, I want to say.

I don’t respond to him, but leave him on read.

I go to put down the phone, ignore this stranger, but again, there’s a ping that vibrates in my hand, settling in my joints. I turn the screen to face me and stare at the words.

Please understand that I didn’t want to hurt you.

But you did, I want to say. My fingers itch to move, to type the words and send them into the abyss where the coding and Bluetooth and craziness that is technology will direct them to him.

Whoever he is behind this screen.

I don’t open the message. I let my phone fall onto the wood of the bench that I am sitting on, because I don’t want to care. I don’t want to be bothered by this boy who is trying too hard to be someone who he can’t be. I have other things to do, other people who actually deserve my time.

But still, these messages, his presence, digital and made of pixels and blue light, a mask of who he really is, bothers me to no avail.

The phone keeps pinging, and I reach over to turn on the silencer. My eyes skim the words on the top of the digital pile of notifications.

I know you don’t do anything randomly, so I know that you’re angry at me, but please answer me.

And then another notification.

I need to know if you’re okay.

Who are you, I want to ask, to ask me if I’m okay? And why do you need to know? So that you can hurt me again? Use everything that you know about me to kill me with your twisted words?

I shake my head, not knowing what to do or say.

I turn the silencer off and turn my head away from the phone, even though my attention is still on the words, on the conversations that were mostly led by him, the haunting confusion and weird sense of hairs rising at the nape of my neck whenever I see his words in my text inbox.

Who is this boy, behind the screen? What made him like this, to want to hurt people inferior to him, who are too naïve or too kind to talk him down? What did he see in me that made me his next victim?

Why am I his victim anyway?

I sigh, feeling the vibrations from my phone, and curl my fingers into my fists so that I don’t grab my phone. I look out at the world, trying to see the faces of the people that pass by. Notice the way their noses point into the world, facing the direction of their attention. Forward, either tunnel vision or something in the distance that has snagged their attention. Sideways as they chat with their friend, or make sure that they have everything with them in their bag or purse. Downwards, their phone, scrolling or typing like there’s bullets coming out of people’s fingers, landing on the screen.

Bullets on the screen. Bullets on the screen. Bullets on the screen.

I shake my head, close my eyes, and try to find my heart in the midst of all this mess. But my thoughts are like flies trapped inside a house with no open windows or doors, buzzing around and finding things to land on, dodging my persistent swats.

Bullets on the screen. Bullets on the screen. Bullets-

A guttural sound rips its way through my throat, and I find that I’m not even embarrassed by it. My fists are clenched so hard that my nails dig into my creased palm, and as the sound escapes my body I feel a rapid release of tears falling down my cheeks.

I don’t know how long I will keep this up. How much longer can I keep the mask of indifference and ignorance on my face? This mask that I’ve made, both digitally and emotionally. On the outside, I keep pretending that nothing is wrong. I keep ignoring his messages and leave him staring at the two blue check marks at the bottom of each message.

Maybe he’s not a person. He’s an AI bot, trying to get me ensnared in its trap and chip my brain so that Elon Musk can control me.

Yeah. Maybe that’s why he’s hurting me like this. Because robots don’t have hearts.

“Excuse me?” I open my eyes to find you holding my phone. There’s small strips of mulch stuck to it, black and brown against the white silicone of my case. “Your phone fell from the bench.”

“Throw it away.” I croak, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. “I never want to see it again.”

You look confused, your face pinched together in worry. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t want it.” I say, and I know that you might think I’m crazy. When one of my friends recently told me that she was getting rid of her phone, I thought that she was crazy. Who, in this day and age, would get rid of their phone?

“Why?” You look at the phone, trying to find out if anything was there that needed fixing. “Is there anything wrong with it?”

“Yes.” I just want to get away from him. I just want him to never be near me, in any shape or form, ever again. “I never ever want to see it ever again.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with it, right?” You ask me again, trying to find out what’s wrong with me.

“I’m not crazy.” I snap.

“I didn’t say that.” You say, and I flinch. In your hand, my phone vibrates again, with another notification.

My face burns hot with shame as you glance at the notification, and something that looks like understanding dawns onto your face. “Oh.”

“Just…” This is so embarrassing that I can’t even meet your eyes when you look at me. “Just keep it on the bench.”

“But…” You look down again at my phone, deciding whether or not you should say anything. “Aren’t you going to respond?”

I wordlessly shake my head no.

“But why?”

“Because…”

I don’t know what to say.

My heart hurts too much.

I have too much to say.

When I say something, it might be the end of him, and I don’t want that.

I’m worried.

I’m waiting.

I’m scared.

No, I’m terrified.

“Because I am choosing to ignore him.” I peer up at you. “And it’s none of your business.”

“But you were crying a few moments ago.” You cock your hand, and hold out my phone to me. “Because this is hurting you, right?”

Yes. I don’t react. I just stare at the phone, the choice. Imagine what might happen if I do respond. “I think you should at least tell him to stop.” You tell me, and come to sit next to me, not too close that we’re touching, but close enough that I can take my phone from you.

I pry my fingers open and take my phone, staring at the notifications.

I know that I hurt you, and I’m sorry.

But your words are too sweet.

I can’t control myself.

“I’m not the problem.” I clutch my phone, angry. “Why is he making me the problem?”

You don’t say anything next to me, and we both wait for the next thing he has to say.

I understand that this makes you uncomfortable but this is the truth.

“This guy is sick.” You say, disgusted. Your nose is crinkled deeply, your eyebrows pinched together. “You really need to say something.”

“Say what?” I look at you, astonished at your boldness.

You meet my eyes, and I’m immediately floored by the intensity in your gaze. “You are given free will for a reason.” You say, voice steady. “Every choice you make, you’re either honoring that gift or misusing it. That includes the choices you make online. You choose how you present yourself online, and the things that you do, say and post are things that you made the choice to share. You get to choose who you are behind this.” You hold up your phone, shining almost blindingly in the sun. “And you get to choose who you are behind your own skin. In this case, you’re the victim, but you don’t need to stay the victim.” You put down your phone and concentrate your gaze on me. “I think you’re using this digital world to hide because you’re scared of him seeing who you really are. But I don’t see what you’re ashamed of. You’re a human, not a bunch of pixels and 1s and 0s.”

I’m crying so hard that I can barely see you, my sight blurred by my tears.

“You deserve to be treated as such, even on the Internet. But you need to show him that you’re not going to let him treat you like a toy.” You hand me a tissue, stalling for the final blow. “It’s time for you to get rid of the donkeyskin on your shoulders and show him the princess that you are.”

I sniffle as I wipe my tears with your tissue. “Donkeyskin?”

You laugh. “I like fairy tales.” You explain, and I know that we’ll get along perfectly. “Now, let’s show this craphead who he’s dealing with.”