“Her son’s a total burnout,” my friend told me, sipping a soda on my couch. “A lazy bully. The teachers hate him. He used to be a big
shot, a ‘rich kid‘ with a bunch of followers. But now that your… uh… ex–dad’s company is tanking and his allowance got cut, his ‘frie-
nds‘ have all bailed. Plus, all the people he used to bully are getting their revenge. Everyone’s taking a shot at him.”
“He’s blaming it all on Sharon. I heard he beat her so badly a few days ago she ended up in the hospital. It was a huge deal.”
I listened, amused. Sharon had brought it all on herself. But the interesting part was that, not long after, she started her own livest-
ream.
She sat in front of the camera, her face a mask of sorrow, a stark contrast to the raging woman who had attacked me.
–
“Hello, everyone,” she began timidly. “I’m one of the people from that incident that’s been all over the internet. My name is Sharon.”
The moment she said her name, a flood of abuse filled the chat. But she didn’t lash out. She sighed heavily. “I’ve read all of your
comments. Every single word.”
Sharon barely finished high school. She’d been a housewife her entire adult life, completely dependent on my father. There was no
way she came up with this script herself.
“I wanted to keep some things private,” she said, her voice trembling. “But they have gone too far. My husband, my son, and I… we
can’t even leave our house. I’m afraid if I stay silent any longer, my son won’t be able to survive this, being scorned and ridiculed for
the rest of his life.”
I thought she was about to drop some huge bombshell. My mind raced, preparing for anything.
Instead, she held up a medical report.
“Cyberbullying is a terrible thing,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “So many innocent lives have been lost to the violence of wor-
- ds. I never understood it before, but now… I’m a victim.”
“Yes,” she announced, “I have been diagnosed with depression. Severe depression.” The tears began to fall freely. “Do you all really
want to be murderers? What good will it do you to cause the deaths of me and my child?”
I looked at her face, at the skyrocketing viewer count, and a small smile touched my lips.
Sure enough, the internet’s collective bullshit detector was working perfectly.
[Lady, please! Your fake diagnosis is so bad! The doctor who signed this isn’t even a real professional! The hospital name is spelled wrong, and could you at least get the date right?]
[Honestly, I’ve never been called a murderer before, but if it’s for killing a home–wrecking mistress who tried to drive the real wife to her grave, I think I could live with it. Sounds kinda cool, actually!]
[I thought she was building up to something big, and this is it? THIS??]
[Please, for the love of God, stop streaming. Your face is causing me psychological damage. I’m going to have nightmares.]
[Did your son knock some sense out of you when he beat you up last week? Or did he knock it into you and now you’re just brain- damaged?]
Sharon had clearly done some research. She’d read that people are generally sympathetic toward those with depression and deci- ded to roll the dice. But instead of winning the jackpot, she crapped out, only fanning the flames of their hatred.
