I found him sulking through the trees. Black mirrored face angled at his feet, the dull glow barely illuminating his sneakers. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked, clambering over a fallen tree. 

I thought it was just a boy lost in the woods, as he was dressed like me. Baggy pants, a rough, holey hoodie. When he turned, angling his huge phone head towards me, I knew I was wrong. 

His flat screen face grew in brightness, but then washed back to a dull luster as he turned back around and slowly moved off. 

“Hey? Are you lost?” I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the kid. 

Like so many of us youngsters, I felt his pain. The burden of having your face stuck in a screen. Constantly fighting the world beyond those pixels. 

Somewhere far off, a droning sound reverberated through the woods. Phone Head Boy looked up. Screen flickering in the night. That’s when I noticed the jagged line running down his face. 

He took off at a slow run. I followed wanting to help this broken kid. As I ran, I heard the breaking of twigs. Beyond the trees, I saw more lights. Dull ones barely piercings the night. Phone Head Boy sped up, jumping logs and scattering bushes. 

All of a sudden, he stopped at a glade. From out of the trees more Phone Head people came out and stoos stock still, waiting, looking up above the trees. They were like me, some girls in skirts and baggy pants, boys in hoodies and white sneakers. 

Every one of them looked tired. Shoulders sagging, head lulling. Screens cracked at varying places. 

I tapped Phone Head Boy on the shoulder and he turned his illuminated face to me. There, on his screen, rolled a single stream of tears. A multitude of comments sprung up and disappeared.

Why don’t you just kill yourself.

Wanker.

Nobody likes you

Eat a dick.

The drone grew louder. An excited buzz went through the Phone Head People standing at the edge of the trees. Their lights grew steadily brighter as the sound came closer, until the drone was deafening. 

Above the trees, a high figure emerged. A towering, naked giant with the head of a stadium’s screen. It flashed sporadically. White. Black. Red. Black. 

The Phone Head People responded. They screens mimicking the colossal entity. 

Then their screens died, only to be replaced by a warning red screen. 

Phone Head Boy turned slowly towards me. A message scrolling across his face. 

Kill the bullies. Kill them all.

The woods erupted as they chased away. 

A day later, I was sitting at home, scrolling through my news feed. I froze as I read the main article’s headline. 

Cell phones make thousands die mysteriously.