Waifu– why-foo -noun- a fictional character, usually from an anime that a fan believes, or fantasizes is their partner.
The life of a waifu is frustrating. Every sexual fantasy ever thought of thrives as a reality inside my dimension. I am here because Andrew loves my anime, Butter Shots, more than he loves people. I live in a home that mirrors his mother’s outdated ranch. Alone, I chafe my toes on mauve Berber carpet in the morning. Before I fed him her body over the course of a year, I had lived with Andrew’s other-dimension-self, and his other-dimension-mother. We both knew what I was cooking, but just like Andrew on Earth; this Andrew could be manipulated by any person with a few spread legs. He was two dimensional in most respects. More avatar than man, he didn’t put up much of a fight when I buried him jaw-deep in the back yard like I was harvesting carrots in reverse. I left him to die, and it took a while. His other-dimension self’s death didn’t change the fact that I still had Earth-Andrew kicking around to haunt me.
I was bumblefucking around with my garbage disposal when I heard Andrew’s asthma-rattling moan cut the barrier between our dimensions like an air-raid siren. The branches of my left hand were twisted around a bottle of bear mace. Hot spunk glopped into my eye from the Earth Dimension with a gurgling smack. I had been so focused on digging the petite tube out of the disposal that I didn’t duck. I grunted in pain, startled by Andrew’s uncharacteristic mid-morning orgasm. I lost my balance with my hand stuck in the fruit, fist, and mace clogged disposal. I felt the switch flick up under my pinky finger as I lurched forward and tried to catch myself on the taupe tiled counter. I couldn’t bring my panic-blazing vocal cords to shriek through my gaping mouth. Andrew’s gasps were ripping through space and time and appeared to weep from my glossed lips like a pornographic voice over.
The lettuce-rusted blades popped the canister of mace and three of my fingers simultaneously. My blood whirred with the blades as the repellent spray scorched me. I struggled for sixteen seconds before I was able to slap the switch off and jerk free the mangled bits of my formerly manicured fingers. I plucked an acrylic nail from my bleeding bone-jumble of a hand. Last night, I had painted my fingers Punch Me Plum and it clashed with the cherry pools where the blades nicked the nail bed and filled the cracks with blood. I had it up to here with his shit. Too long I had lived sleepless and splattered with sperm while his whispers of devotion annexed my autonomy.
I knew what I had to do. I said to hell with the risks and consequences of infection as I wrapped my hand with a food-stained dish rag. I grabbed a hammer from the junk drawer and tucked it into the band of my miniskirt. I knew he was going to cum again. Andrew always came again. Sure as shit, the barrier between our dimensions began to split. His labored cries crept through to my home like mustard gas and grew in intensity. My mouse-shaped cheese grater shook to the floor, and the hands on my clock rattled backwards and broke as he became louder, and louder. His volume threatened to simultaneously rupture my tea cup collection and my eardrums. The portal spread itself in front of my double-doored refrigerator. It quivered, looking like a slit as it waved open and closed with the rise and falls of Andrew’s self-pleasure. It glittered and the opening refracted light into my kitchen as if rainbows were being purged from another dimension and dumped across my linoleum floor. Looking into the portal was like staring at spilled gasoline on the pavement. The air around it seemed to dance with a slow rhythm, like when it’s so hot the heat makes the world ahead look like a desert mirage. He began to call me. The congested whine of my name edged the portal wider.
I jumped through the gash in space and splattered into Andrew’s anime-themed bedroom on Earth like a slapstick assassin. I could hear the Butter Shots theme music leaking from his desktop computer. He had papered the walls of his bedroom with images of me. These snapshots from a life I do not get to live felt like cruel crystal balls flaunting an impossible future. His floor was a banquet of soiled clothing, crushed cans of Keystone Ice, and empty periwinkle boxes of oyster crackers. Andrew spun around in his chair like Hitler on high alert. His beard glistened and dripped while his cock popped up and down in his hand like a drunken gopher. His half-dollar eyes scraped up the paintbrush line of my toned legs. Andrew brought his focus to my breasts, which were always full and heaving because of how he made me. I felt the threatening head of the concealed tool cooling my hip where it kissed my skin. I did not wait for him to ask my name. I didn’t wait for him to put anything together.
I pulverized his feet and shanks with small angry taps. His skin swelled and purpled with each bone-cracking knock. Determined, I worked the iron tool to turn his bones into marrow-saturated dust. I wanted to leave him to putrefy like a human Beanie Baby. I didn’t really care if he died while I beat him, but I much preferred the idea of him boneless and starving to death. I was making progress. His left foot was a limp swollen mass, and I was mashing his ankle with diligent drops of my hammer. Andrew shrieked like kittens in a wheat thresher until his protests fell to wisps of morbid defeat.
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