Amy Glover (Write Here, Write Now/ 3rd level finalist)

And now for Amy's WRITE HERE, WRITE NOW entry ...

The Word of Strangers

Ping. A twist from under the covers. Her face, planted downwards just below the crook of her arm, wrinkled slightly. Short grunts were expelled into a plain white pillowcase, little groans grunted through layers of brown hair and cotton. It was seven in the morning.
Ping. Another movement, this time more decisive. Alex pulled her elbows in, pushed her long body up by her cocked knee, and turned to the side, her dark eyes squinting. Sunday. Pale sunlight crept beneath her solid grey blinds, her phone’s screen glowing beside her bed, blue-tinged and expectant. She blinked at the light, her forehead creasing. It felt too early. A ragged yawn rose in her throat, bobbing out of her lungs like a tipsy jellyfish. Alex hated mornings.
Ping. That tone, proud and abrupt, announced another notification. Her phone’s screen was filled with the vertical ranks of translucent grey oblongs, each presenting small digital gifts from various apps. Snapchat from Lauren. Liam_98 shared your photo. A few mentions on Twitter, some comments on Facebook. As her eyes adjusted, Alex focused on that small, glowing rectangle beside her bed. Its brief, tinny Siren’s call was irresistible. Sleepily, she reached her arm out from under the covers, her fingers clasping the familiar weight of her phone.
It beeped happily as it was tugged from its charger, the daily cutting of its electrical umbilical cord now an established part of its routine. Both of theirs, really. Alex’s day began when her phone’s did. They kept each other busy. She had amassed something of a social media following, posing faux-candidly with strappy clothes and trendy foods for Instagram and filming upbeat lifestyle vlogs for YouTube. In turn, the sites shot notifications at her, bleeped reminders in protest if left neglected for too long, offered endless newer and better ways to connect. It had begun as an interest, a fun way to capture great outfits and pretty moments. Now, it felt like an obligation, a way of affirming she was there, that she’d been seen, noticed, liked. Still, Alex thought, her thumb grazing the cool glass of the screen- it hardly hurts.
Ping. Then again, there were downsides. Cruel messages, like the one which had just announced itself, were common enough. She’d become almost immune to the constancy of abuse, the streams of unfounded vitriol shot at her daily. Almost, but not quite. Violent and abrupt, the words of this last DM sat squat in front of her, daring her to respond, smirking in anticipation of response or reaction. Alex drew her duvet closer to her face, an unwarranted shame prickling along her jaw, the heat of embarrassment crawling across her back.
Ping. Nonetheless, she kept looking. It was strange, this need, this feeling that every last like and mention measured her, somehow. Something icy and unfamiliar rose up in her throat when she thought about it, hardening into a heavy lump. It had been a while, she realised, her eyes finally drifting upwards from the smooth glass screen, since she’d felt free from that. Months had gone by without any real self-assurance. Just numbers, hearts, the words of strangers, the vacant digital shout of the terminally overengaged--
Ping. Alex’s phone vibrated from the floor she’d thrown it on, its high-pitched call falling, for now, on deaf ears.


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