The Hentai Figurine

There is a subservient little slut living in my boyfriend’s bedroom. She has long blonde hair and the thinnest waist I have ever seen. Every time I see her she is wearing the same skimpy bikini that just barely covers her huge perfect tits and round ass cheeks. The rest of her is all creamy exposed flesh. She is impossibly smooth, pore-less, hairless and shiny. She is always bent over on all fours, arching her back, provocatively balanced on her tiny elbows and knees. Not that she really has a choice. She has no thoughts, no voice, no teeth. She has no internal organs. She is only nine centimeters high and ten centimeters wide. She is very beautiful and I loathe her vehemently. She is a hentai figurine.

My boyfriend’s stupidest friend, a skinny-fat pimple-faced pervert named Steve, gave him the doll as a birthday present last week as a “joke.” I do not understand the joke. I hate Steve. Steve is a fucking weeb. When it was my birthday, Steve didn’t buy me anything, not even a drink. I already hated Steve before last week, before he gave my boyfriend the hentai figurine, and I will continue to hate Steve after the hentai figurine meets her demise— which I have already begun planning. There is only enough room in my boyfriend’s bedroom for one subservient slut, and that subservient slut is going to be me.

According to the cheap plastic box that she arrived in, the slut’s name is Asuna Yuuki and she materialized from an autistic Japanese light novel series called Sword Art Online. I looked at the Sword Art Online Wikipedia page for a while to try and grasp the plot, but I found the entry extremely grating. Chock-full of irritating compound words for nerds like cyberspace and nervegear and mainframe. It is probably better that I do not understand Asuna’s background anyway, since I am going to kidnap and murder her tonight. It’s like how my mother taught me that you should always make eye contact with strange men in public who look like they are trying to sex-murder you, because if you humanize yourself to the potential sex-murderer, they are less likely to sex-murder you and more likely to find another girl to sex-murder, one whose mother never told her about the making eye contact thing. Not that I am going to sex-murder Asuna. I am just going to regular murder her. Unlike me, she cannot be sex-murdered because she does not have any holes to fuck, a fact that I am sure pathetic weebs like Steve wish was not true. God, I hate Steve.

I have tried my best to coexist with her— Asuna— I really have, but I just cannot. She taunts me. She sits all splayed out in her bikini on my boyfriend’s cheap IKEA shelf between a stack of unopened mail and a book about war and taunts me. She assesses me. She sends me telepathic messages: she watches me fuck my boyfriend in the dark from across the room and implants her thoughts into my head without my consent, she tells me that she could do it better, that her tits are bigger than mine and that I will never be as hairless as she is, because I have follicles and she does not. On top of being a slut, she is also a bitch. And now she is making me act like a bitch too.

I am always stalking around my boyfriend’s apartment in a testy mood, the same kind of testy mood that comes over me after I have had a dream in which my boyfriend acted nefariously. I have hardly left his apartment all week because I can’t stop wondering what happens when he is alone with her in his room. I can’t stop picturing him on his bed with his dick out, looking at her on his shelf and masturbating. I can’t stop imagining him imagining her. I really need to leave his apartment so that I can go home and pluck my eyebrow hairs and water my windowsill milkweed, but I can’t, or else he might take his pants off and touch himself and think about what it would be like if his doll had a fuckable pussy. The paranoia and jealousy she inspires in me is holding me hostage here. The only way I can leave is if she leaves too, which is why I am going to kidnap and kill her tonight, so that I can finally go back to my apartment and get some good sleep. This is all Steve’s fault, really. Fuck you, Steve.

If I am going to get away with this crime I am going to have to do all of the things that the best criminals do. I am going to need to keep suspicions low. I am going to need an alibi. I am going to need to get my story straight, and if it comes down to it, I am going to need to deny, deny, deny, and find someone else to blame. I am going to have to take this secret with me to the grave. And speaking of graves, I am going to need to pick out a genius burial place for Asuna’s tiny plastic body, somewhere safe and dark where the shelved whore will never be found.

I have already been working hard at keeping suspicions low. It has not been easy hiding my hatred and disdain for her all week, but I am pretty sure I have been doing amazing. I am completely exhausted from all of the self-restraint. For example, back when Steve first handed my boyfriend the doll, I immediately wanted to say something hateful and mean like ew Steve, you fucking perverted freak, how dare you gift my boyfriend a miniature Japanese sex doll on his birthday, you fucking loser weeb, but instead I just smiled and clenched my fists under the table and said nothing. Actually, I might have even mustered up the phoniness to eke out something small like awww or how sweet, but I can’t remember now, what with all of the blind rage and inner turmoil I have been dealing with since then.

My plan for tonight is foolproof, or at least it should be. My boyfriend will leave for his dinner shift at the steakhouse around sunset, and I will pretend to leave with him. I will tell him the truth about how badly I need to go home and water my milkweeds. I will walk out the door with him and get into my car and speed down the street and everything, but as soon as I am sure he has gotten far enough away, I will park again and sprint back to his place, climb in through the bedroom window and kidnap the little bitch. Under cover of darkness I will snatch that slut right off of her shelf, and then I will knock the whole shelf over in a way that makes it look like one of the nails holding it in place gave out. That way, the crime scene will be a big confused mess— all of the unopened mail will scatter and fall, his books will collapse to the ground— everything will pile up on the carpet in great disarray.

When he gets home from his shift it will be so late and he will be so tired and it will be so dark that he won’t even have time to wonder where the doll is because he will be too busy cleaning up the wreckage. It is a perfect plan, I think. It is so stupid and desperate, but it is perfect. Plus, even if he does wonder where the doll is, he would never be able to blame me, because as far as he knows I am at home watering my milkweeds— we walked out together, he watched me leave! It would take a real psycho to put together a fucked up little plan like this, and he has no idea that I am a real psycho, so he will never suspect me.

Besides, the most important part of getting away with something is being really good at lying and denying. I could probably just kidnap her without making a mess and still get away with it through lying and denying alone, but I like the added layer of confusion and collusion. It is so fun. It adds a bit of spice, a bit of excitement, a bit of conspiracy.

Once I am out of there, once I have crept back outside into the night through his bedroom window, cartoon sex doll in hand, I will smuggle her into my car and force her into my apartment where all of the necessary tools to maim and disfigure her await. I will use one of those expensive knives my mother bought me for Christmas and slice her up into tiny, easy to melt pieces while the oven heats up to 300 °F. Then I will sit on the kitchen floor in front of the oven with the little light turned on so that I can watch her shrivel up into soft hot chunks of nothingness. I will feel so evil and so happy.

Once she is a puddle instead of a girl, I will pull her out of the flames and place her in the old shoebox beneath my bed, the one that holds all kinds of things, trinkets I regret buying and don’t care enough about to display, love letters from abusive ex-boyfriends, shoplifted makeup and jewelry. She will rest there forever amongst the rest of those sordid memories, a shadow of her former whorish self, an unidentifiable pool of plastic, a token of my insanity. I will say rest in peace, Asuna and then I will say fuck you, Steve, and then I will sit in front of the mirror for a while practicing good sympathetic faces to make at my boyfriend for when he tells me about the fallen shelf and everything. I will pluck my eyebrow hairs and water my milkweeds and sleep better than I have all week. I will feel psychotic. I will feel at peace.