DON’T FEED THE TROLLS

5:10 AM. Daisy lays in bed with her eyes wide open. Across the room, her smartphone screen glowed, winking at her. It was distracting: irritating, yet beckoning her. She threw back the covers. Dorito, rudely awakened, jumped up and fled, meowing in protest.
‘Sorry, Doty!’ she said.
The screen lit up the room. No. Get a grip, she told herself. Let’s start with breakfast. She cut a slice of bread. Butter. Jam. Toaster. She scooped some coffee into the filter. She was breathing rapidly, a drop of sweat running down her back. From the corner of her eye, she saw the screen glow.
Three unread messages: U cuming today, bitch?! Message me. U cheap dirty slut. She replied: Watch ur tone, miserable lowlife. I should fuck your face like I own you. The typing indicator was active. He was online! She was wet. She wanted it so badly that it almost hurt. Their chat became a back and forth of filthy promises of how they would fuck each other, put each other in their places. Suddenly, the smoke alarm went off. ‘WEEEEE−WEEEEE−WEEEEE−WEEEEE!’ Dorito hissed. Lost in their filthy exchange, she didn’t notice the toast burning. She wondered what he would be like offline. Soon, she would know.
In a way, he wasn’t a complete stranger anymore. Their chat had begun eight years ago. At the time, her Tumblr page had been a creative explosion of cheerful photo-collages and feminist wisdom. I’m tough, I’m ambitious and I know exactly what I want. If that makes me a bitch, okay. – Madonna. Pictures of baby Dorito, yoga poses, festivals, city trips and vegan recipes. Stir-fried cauliflower with pomegranate seeds. Portobello steaks. Sometimes, a troll snuck into her inbox, calling her a whore, a bitch or a frigid shrew. She imagined spotty-faced young men who still lived with their mums in the basements of their houses and hated to see other people happy. Don’t feed the trolls, she reminded herself.
One particular troll commented on the portobello steak, saying that she should go back to the kitchen, where she belonged, and he added numerous DMs. She ignored him. After a week, though, it started to get irritating. Daisy wasn’t usually easily upset, but the most recent DM was so cringeworthy she couldn’t NOT respond. The whole thing rhymed with bitch. Asshole. His stupid rhyming message festered in her mind. You know what your problem is? she wrote. You don’t matter to anyone. You’re a weakling in an echo chamber of terminally online incels. She furiously tapped the words on the screen of her smartphone. She called him social detritus, a waste of space. Daisy, usually so sunny and calm in everyday life, appeared to have a lot of pent-up hatred in her fingers. It came pouring out all at once. Nice.
Don’t have anything to say now, huh? she wrote.
Bitch, u fuck me over.
Gladly.
Oh, yeah? You’d like that? Want my milk, u slut?
Something shifted in the tone of their chat. She became more eager. She wrote that she would spit on him virtually. She would screw him. Go on, he wrote. His dick was a pathetic little worm, she would use him to cum, wipe her hands on him and ditch him like rubbish. Heat coursed through her body. She wiped the damp seat of her chair. Her trousers were wet at the crotch, her panties soaked. Her thoughts ran wild. Her pussy took over her mind. This is how the multi-year online tussle between Daisy and the troll had started.
Things got awkward when she met Justin. She hesitated. Chatting with the troll wasn’t cheating, was it? It didn’t involve emotions, just hatred and heat. Eventually, her sense of guilt took over. One night, after an incredible orgasm, while sitting on her computer chair, she decided to put the troll on standby. She was happy with Justin. He was intelligent and interesting. He did household chores. And he loved Dorito.
‘Honey?’
He was just about to get out of bed to make coffee. He did so every morning. So sweet.
‘Yes, baby?’
‘Can you call me a dirty slut? Just once …’
Justin stiffened.
‘Well, I’d rather not. But if you really want me to, I’ll try …’
After some time, her relationship with Justin fizzled out like a soggy campfire. It smouldered listlessly for a while and then it was done. Daisy rekindled her chat with the troll. After some swearing on his part about all bitches being sluts who just leave you out in the cold, they chatted on a daily basis again.
Eventually, the question that would ruin everything came up.
What if we met? the troll asked.
I’d roast you, Daisy replied automatically.
[Typing …] He stopped for a minute. [Typing …]
Hard?
I’d fucking burn you.
When!!!! Where????!!!!
She gasped. Her palms left a wet imprint on the tabletop.
I’m nowhere near you, she wrote.
I don’t care, u dumb slut. Need to see u.
She waited for him in a trendy coffee bar – oat milk cappuccinos and organic green juices, MacBooks on the tables. Her territory, not his. She was sure she’d recognise the troll instantly. She pictured him as pimply and pale, socially inept, horny and full of compressed frustration. She would teach him a lesson … Her crotch cramped.
WHERE R U???! Her phone screen glowed.
She looked around. There was a smart-looking guy wearing a designer jumper, a barista with a trimmed moustache, an intellectual young man reading a well-thumbed book, and a man carrying a guitar bag. All the men in this café were normal. Suddenly, she began to think that the troll was not an exception. The troll could be anyone. He could be right here. The sexual tension in her disappeared instantly. Something gnawed at her instead. She got up and grabbed her coat.
‘Were you waiting for someone?’ a voice asked.
‘No, I wasn’t.’
Dorito was waiting at home. She needed to feed him.