When the Screen Becomes a Weapon — One Man’s War Against the Trolls

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that wraps itself around four walls just moments before everything is about to shatter.

It was late — or early, depending on how you looked at it — and a father was caught off guard by the sight of his son, wide awake, standing in the doorway. What’s the matter? came the quick deflection. Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. A clumsy cover-up, the sort a man throws together when he’s been caught with his guard down. A question about breakfast, a gentle push to get the boy back to bed. The usual dance of a parent trying to shield a child from things they shouldn’t have to see.

But the boy wasn’t having it.

Fixing cars was all good, he said, his voice carrying the weight of a pitch. I reckon I got more to offer. There was confidence there — or at least the performance of it. A young man trying to prove he was ready for more. A proper business brain, he claimed. Whatever needed doing, he’d do it. Just say the word.

Can you drive?

A pause. Yeah, of course I can.

Great. Well, not legally. But me test is next week.

That was when the door opened and a new voice entered the scene. Two fellas with business on their minds. A parcel to collect. The woman behind the counter — darling, they called her — went searching through a system that clearly wasn’t doing her any favors. Meanwhile, another deal was being struck: a flat to clear out. A tenant who’d done a runner. Keys handed over, job offered, and the eager young man jumping at the chance — whatever you want me to do, whenever you want me to do it.

But hesitation crept in. A stammered Yeah, yeah, yeah, um, sorry, um, I mean, of course, mate. And the reply came sharp as a blade: That’s more like it. First rule of business — don’t let people take you for a mug.

The parcel hunt grew tense. If you’ve ever watched someone fumble through a disorganized back room while customers stand tapping their feet, you’ll recognize the scene. Can’t find it. Currently can’t find it. But we will do. The patience snapped. This is ridiculous. A sharp retort. Well, you and your stupid system. Alphabetical order by surname or address, apparently, wasn’t good enough. Not when you’ve got parcels of every size stacked to the ceiling. The counter was defended — I’m going to choose to ignore that comment — but the damage was done.

Then came the commentary. A voice piping up from the sidelines, questioning the entire concept of parcel collection. Why are people still collecting their own parcels? Can they not open a front door? The defense was simple: People work. A scoff followed: Yes, these days from home. The debate had been had before. It didn’t need rehashing. It’s lucrative, came the final word on the matter.

And then, as if by magic — Oh, there you go. Clear as day. The parcel, right at the front all along.

A tip was offered. A charity box hunted down. A generous donation dropped in. Wow.

But the tension in the room hadn’t fully lifted. It had just relocated.

Outside, the sun was doing its best to pretend everything was normal. A kid on a bike eyed a jump with the kind of reckless certainty that only children possess. Do you reckon you could do this jump? Yes. A shout to a father lost in his phone. Dad. Daniel, did you see that jump?

But Daniel wasn’t watching. His eyes were glued to the screen, scrolling. Scrolling through darkness.

Oi, stop doom scrolling. Don’t you know it causes brain rot? Even when it’s your own doom? Especially when it’s your own doom.

A sharp reminder: Your son was trying to show you something.

The apology came quick and hollow. Oh, I’m sorry, mate. Go on. Show me now. But the moment had passed. The boy had already sealed himself off. No, it doesn’t matter. The father pushed. The son pulled away. Nope. And then, with a note of bitter encouragement: Yeah, you stick to your guns. That jump was a one time thing, wasn’t it?

Then the mask slipped.

Sorry. I’m sorry, mate. These comments are getting worse. I was up half the night reading them.

There it was. The real reason for the sleeplessness. The real reason for the distance