Fugly

ideals.

1: #thebeautifulpeople

I’m in the library again. Not the university one, but the big one in town. I prefer this one. The uni one is newer and probably has more relevant texts, but it’s full of students, and as a breed, students are pretty boring. All they tend to do is type, text and talk. In contrast, this place is a great place to people-watch. I have to do it surreptitiously, because no one likes to be stared at, but I do like to watch the other humans go about their day and imagine their thoughts: who’s writing mental lists, who’s imagining everyone without their clothes on, who’s falling apart on the inside. The library assistant marches past me, shepherding a group of under-4s to a corner filled with beanbags. Their parents trail behind them with the hopeless expressions of the perpetually knackered. The library assistant is smiling brightly, but I bet she’d like to stove every single one of their little skulls in, the whining little brats. And their parents, too. Unless their parents end up being grateful to them. Thanks for that, library lady. Little Johnny was doing my fucking head in, too.

I turn the page of my book. Psychology is infinitely fascinating. There’s Freud, who thought everything boiled down to you wanting to fuck your parents. Then there’s Jung, who was all about the conscious and unconscious mind and how we’re all egotistical dillholes. And Piaget, who developed that whole stages of cognitive development stuff. According to most of these guys, we’re all barking. I like that. It’s comforting, in a way. Doesn’t matter what you look like, or what you dress like, you’re still mad. Hear that, Jenna Thwaites? We’re equal in that at least.

I twiddle my pen. Jenna Thwaites. Haven’t thought about her in a long time. She was blonde, with shiny white teeth and a flat stomach. She did yoga. She wore a headband made of little cloth daisies and pretended to be vegan. Even I couldn’t deny she was stunning. I remember watching her devour two chocolate frosted cupcakes one lunchtime, whilst I was eating a very limp salad. But no one glared at her. No one told her she’d regret it later. No, it’s all perfectly acceptable when you’ve won the genetic lottery. It’s all fine when you can walk it off just by strolling home.

Bitch.

I wonder what she’s up to now. At a far better university than me, I bet, probably studying something arty. Or off on a gap year, somewhere exotic, filling Instagram with pictures of her looking impossibly beautiful in tiny bikinis where she is feeding orphans and building homeless shelters. Or maybe she’s working in some supermarket where she isn’t allowed to wear that stupid daisy headband, yeah, and she’s already pregnant and getting fatter and fatter by the day, wondering where it all went wrong. Yeah, that’s the one I like. That’s the one—

"Hi! Uh, are you reading Principles of Modern Psychology?"

I look up. A girl my age smiles widely at me, to the point where her eyes crinkle a little at the corners, but she’s probably just being polite. She’s tall, with long dark hair pulled into one of those messy buns that are supposed to look deconstructed and carefree but actually take four fucking hours to perfect. Eyes accentuated by perfectly applied black liner, complete with perfect Cleopatra flicks. A kooky little dress and a pair of pink Mary Janes to complete the look. Anyone could see she’s gorgeous. I hate her already.

Yes, I say, slightly guarded.

Oh, cool. The librarian said so. She lets out an awkward giggle. Can I have it when you’re finished?

Bat bat bat with the stupid fake eyelashes. Why do some girls feel they have to wear them all the time? It makes them look like they’ve glued tarantulas to their faces. I spend a delicious moment picturing that, complete with facial devouring, but realize her smile is faltering because I’m probably giving her a weird thousand-yard-stare right now. I clear my throat.

Oh, uh, yeah. Of course. I was just looking something up, but it’s no biggie. I make a pantomime of scribbling down the last line. There. You can have it.

Really? You sure? That’s sooo awesome of you! Her smile transforms into a grin, and for a moment, it looks like it might be actually genuine. Maybe uni is different. Maybe people will see past the fat, past the ugly, past the whole concept of fugliness. I give her a little nod and a hesitant smile back, and hand the book over.

Thanks! You’re the best, she trills and bounces back to another table across the room. There’s a whole gaggle of Beautiful People over there, and I instinctively hunch down in my seat. But hang on—wasn’t I just wondering if uni might be different? I mean, she seemed nice. She said thanks. She didn’t just take it and tell me to fuck off, fatty. I dare to glance over. She’s talking in an animated way to her friends, who look over in my direction. One of them, a bloke who looks like he should be in some naff boy band, smirks and wrinkles his nose. And they all laugh.

I know they’re laughing at me. Who else do you think they’re laughing at? I’m fat, not stupid.

I grab my bag off the floor, but in my haste I’ve managed to grasp the bottom and I end up tipping its contents out all over the library floor. Bits of paper, old notebooks, pens, sanitary towels, and my emergency candy bar flood out for everyone to see. No one offers to help. They’re all too busy staring while I paw at my possessions, stuffing them back into the Bag of Shame whilst my cheeks flame and my eyes burn. I don’t bother looking back as I bustle out of the library.

I don’t think I’ll come here anymore.

***

That’s something you get used to when you’re fugly. The minute a Beautiful Person drops something, others rush to their aid. When a fugly person does it, that’s shameful. It’s all their fault. It’s happened to them because they deserve public humiliation. It’s the only way they’ll learn. If they’re lucky, it might teach them a valuable lesson and they’ll try harder not to be so fugly, because let’s be clear on this: Fugliness is most definitely Your Own Fault, Eat Less Move More, Lifestyle Choice etc. etc. fucking etc.

I trudge down the road, my head tucked in, casting furtive little glances around so I don’t accidentally bump into someone. The bus stop’s not far, but I’m still breathing heavily. Must sound like a steam engine or an angry cow. But the more I try to control my breathing, the worse it gets until it feels like the air is lava, burning down into my lungs, setting my chest on fire. I need to stop, to sit down, but I can’t because there are people here, people who could see, people who love to sneer and judge and hate, so I fight on, my thighs rubbing together, sweat running down my back.

I see it. The bus stop. My savior. Doesn’t matter when the bus comes, because all I need is an excuse to sit down, to hide in the corner and gather myself, to—

Oh shit. It’s her. The girl from the library. How the hell did she overtake me? What, Beautiful People have Star Trek transporters now? And she’s sitting in the middle seat, so I can’t perch on the end, pretending I haven’t seen her. But I need to sit down. My legs are killing me. I pull out my phone: twenty minutes? Twenty minutes till the next bus? I can’t stand that long. I just can’t.

Keep your head down. That’s the key. I stuff my earbuds in and crank up some tunes. Something nastily offensive—that always helps act as a repellent. Yeah, I know nobody else can hear it, but I think it helps me exude a don’t fuck with me attitude. Plus, I can ignore people without looking like a total stuck-up bitch.

I approach the bus stop carefully. The girl is looking at her phone. Good. If she keeps doing that, I might just get away with this. I lean nonchalantly against the shelter and try to ignore the way it groans against my weight. To an outside observer, I’m concentrating on my phone, but I am an expert at covert surveillance; all my attention is on the girl, waiting for her to signal she has seen me. With any luck, she won’t and I’ll be able to sit down.

She looks up. Damn it! What was that, a minute? No, not even that. As if I needed more evidence that the universe despises me. She glances around herself, the way girls do, to make sure she’s safe, or at least as safe as a girl sitting at a bus stop can be. Of course, she spots me.

And she smiles.

Hey, you’re from the library, right?

Fuck. Can I pretend I haven’t noticed her? A bit hard, as she’s noticed I was looking at her. I pull one earbud out, and a gunshot crackle of drums floats out into the night.

What was that? I say.

Oh, sorry, shouldn’t talk to people on their phones, I know. But I can’t help it. You get all your stuff? I hate it when things like that happen. I do it all the time—all my stuff, all over the floor. Mortifying, right? I so felt for you.

Oh, really? Was that after you’d stopped laughing?

She chatters on. It was really nice of you to let me use that book. I put it on reserve ages ago, but it’s always checked out. When they said it was in, I was so relieved. I can’t afford to buy myself a copy right now, can you believe it’s like eighty quid or something? Tried to get it online, but even those were selling for over thirty, and that was the older editions. I don’t know why they make these books so expensive. I mean, we’re students, right? How the fuck are we supposed to afford them? So I thought I’d try the library thing, but the uni one has only got, like, three copies or something, which is totes ridiculous, so I went to the town one, which only has one . . . ugh. It’s almost enough to make you just bite the bullet and pay the eighty quid, right? So, uh, yeah. Thanks. You saved my ass. I can write the essay now. Yay!

She gives me an expectant look, but I’m still stunned by her apparent ability to speak without having to breathe. Her smile falters a bit, and I plaster one on my face, remembering too late that smiling = chins.

Um, it’s okay. I’ve already written my essay.

Oh, wow! You have? It’s, like, seven thousand words long. How did you do it so quickly?

Uh, I’m a quick writer. Plus, I like to get things done and out of the way. Don’t have to worry about them then.

Oh, that’s sooo good of you. I can’t do that—I’m, like, procrastination central. There’s always something more interesting to do . . .

And off she goes again. It must be her superpower or something, because she never pauses, doesn’t even check to see if I’m still listening. I reckon I could die right here, right now, and she’d still carry on talking. I’m kind of in awe of her, if I’m honest. But now she’s looking at me expectantly again. Hell, did she ask me a question? Oh bugger, oh, fuck . . .

Well? Where’s your digs? I haven’t seen you around . . . She leaves the question trailing, and I have no choice but to answer.

I don’t have digs here, I say, cringing. Can I really admit that I’m living at home?

Ah, you’re still with your folks, right? Wise move. Rents are so ridiculous—my dad says that when he was a student, you could get digs for, like, twenty quid a week, but not anymore! So expensive. I totally don’t blame you for living at home. Every penny helps, huh?

Uh, yeah. Well, what else am I supposed to say?

A distant chugging heralds the arrival of a bus. I try not to lift my eyes to the heavens in thanks and praise.

Oh, it’s the 21A—are you getting the 21A, too?

I was going to, but not now.

No. The 4, I say, and try to look disappointed.

That’s a shame. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

Yeah—tomorrow’s lecture, silly. I’ll look for you. She smiles again and her whole face lights up. She is ridiculously pretty, and unless all of this is some kind of weird, sadistic long-game thing, she’s also very nice. I’m not used to nice. I offer her as bright a smile as I can manage, remembering the chins thing this time, and try not to screw my eyes up too much. Be brave, young Beth. Remember, this was the idea. New life. New friends. New you. Say yes instead of no and all that jazz.

Yeah. Okay.

I’m Amy, by the way. Amy Hardcastle.

Um, Beth Soames.

Fuuuck. Why did I do that? At least give her a pseudonym so she can’t look me up— No. Stop it. Outside life is not like Online life. People don’t look you up and troll you in Outside life. Well, except when they do, but remember: Uni is a chance to do things differently. So, do things differently!

Cool! Catch you later! Look me up online! she calls as she jumps on the bus and flashes her pass at the driver, like something out of a perfume advert.

And then she’s gone, leaving me very confused indeed.

2: #despicableme

Brat’s not home when I get in. That’s probably a good thing. He’s been bunking off school again, but Mum still won’t punish him. It drives me mental. I suffered at school, but she still made me go. When it comes to Bratley, though? Nah, he can do what he likes. Fucking favoritism.

Mum? I call.

Nothing.

I unzip my coat slowly. The house is cold. Mum can’t afford to put the heating on unless it’s absolutely freezing outside, and even then, it’s only on in short bursts. Right now, it’s jumpers and blankets weather.

I try again. Mum?

I’m here, she says and lets out an almighty barrage of coughs. I close my eyes and count to ten.

You all right?

Yeah, well, maybe. I could do with some help.

I dump my bag by the front door and trudge into the living room. Mum’s sitting there on the sofa, wrapped up in an old crocheted blanket. Dark circles ring her eyes.

Hey love, she says. Good day? Get lots done?

I nod and perch myself next to her. I’ll stay for a bit, just to be polite. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I do love my mum. But sometimes I could do without all this. The tired smiles and the aches and the pains and the ooh, love, could you justs. I know she needs looking after. I know she has issues. I respect that. But I have issues too, and all I ever get is exercise is the best remedy! Get outside. Don’t eat cake. Think positive. Every. Single. Time.

She asks me about uni, and I give her a bare-bones reply. She’s not really all that interested—the only thing she seems to be able to concentrate on nowadays is this pain she is supposed to be in, so she doesn’t ask me to elaborate, which is fine by me. I don’t tell Mum about Amy, but despite myself, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll see her again.

Mum mumbles about how the doctor’s going to up her Amitriptyline prescription to help her sleep, to go on top of all the other medication she needs to help her function, oh, and could I be a dear and pick that up for her tomorrow, yes, it was done over the phone because she couldn’t get out, too much pain.

Too much avoidance, more like. I sometimes wonder if this whole phantom pain thing is more about hiding something deeply psychologically broken within her. Maybe that’s why I joined my course. To understand my own mother.

I just nod, like usual. She smiles weakly at me, a smile I know so well. I get up and make her a cup of tea. She acts surprised when I give it to her, like I’ve never done it before. Bit bloody rich, if you ask me.

I could stay longer, but I’ve got some unfinished business to attend to.

***

My heart flutters painfully as I log in to my laptop and click my email. I dropped an absolute humdinger online this morning, and the anticipation of the backlash feels a bit like Christmas.

And there it is. Fifty-seven notifications, no doubt every one of them either hating my guts or worshipping me as a goddess. This is better than sex. Or so I think, not that I have any experience in that particular field. All I know is this makes me tingle all over in a mightily delicious way. I hover the cursor over the first message, drinking in the excitement.

You fucking bitch!

Oh yeah. That’s the good stuff. Why yes, I do get off on it, thank you for obliging! I lap up every insult, every lol!!, every accusation of trolling.

THIS. IS. THE. LIFE.

3: #underthebridge

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.

4: #MidnightBanshee

After dinner I go back upstairs, feeling stuffed and loathsome. And yet, my secret stash is calling, so I help myself to a Mars bar. I love the way the wrapper splits, revealing that smooth chocolate underneath, and then beneath that, the fluffy, weird stuff that shouldn’t work but IS OH SO GOOD, and the sticky caramel that coats my mouth with sweetness . . .