Wunny Babbit

The sun is shining, and I’ve got a great big garbage bag of styrofoam balls strung across my shoulder. Just watch me walk down the street with it. I bet you’ve never seen such a big fat bag of balls before, not like mine.

I met my girlfriend, Jennifer, on Tumblr. I thought I liked all kinds of women, but not this one. She has a high-pitched voice and a great big bosom shelf that she squishes my face into. This makes me sweat a lot, mainly from nerves. I am a squeeze away from a perforated septum.

The two things I hate about Jennifer most of all are:

1. Her pet rat and

2. Her baby voice.

I don’t consider myself to be monogamous, but I draw a line at this rat throuple situation I’ve ended up in. I refer to us as a throuple, because Runny is probably the most prolific party to this relationship. Jennifer and I moved in together within a week of meeting, so I didn’t have the chance to scope out Runny (it/its pronouns, according to Jennifer). In my defence, I was between places, and Jennifer had an apartment to herself, so it made sense to yield to the urge to merge. I didn’t have many belongings, just a garbage bag full of clothes and a box grater.

Runny is about the size and width of my thigh, with a pink tail double that. Jennifer doesn’t clean because she claims that Runny takes care of the household chores. Runny slips its tail beneath the fridge, runs it inside the drains, mops up the brown juice at the bottom of the rubbish bin, collecting the filth of the apartment with its pink spongey tail before traipsing the sullied thing to bed with us. I once caught Runny sitting on the toilet and dunking its tail in the bowl, like a tea bag in hot water, just after Jennifer had been. Yes, Runny is a real nasty piece of work. And Runny has it in for me.

Runny is systematically ruining my life with a simple, yet highly effective game of psychological warfare. Every morning I prepare myself a lovely pot of coffee and each and every morning, as soon as I have drained my mug of liquid, I promptly and involuntarily vomit it all back up. Why? At the bottom of every cup I find small black pellets, dissolving at the edges from the heat. You’d think I’d learn but what can I say? I wasn’t made for this sick, sad world.

Runny also:

• chews through the internet cables when I’m working.

• jumps out at me from behind the shower curtain as though it wishes for me to slip and bash my head.

• curls its dirty tail around our strap-on just when we’re about to use it.

• walks across my face when I’m asleep.

I could go on, but the latter is a huge issue. Once I spluttered awake after inhaling its tail up my left nostril. Felt like when you get a spaghetti strand caught in your windpipe. I was sick for two weeks after that.

I’ve tried raising the issue with Jennifer many, many times before, but she doesn’t believe me.

‘My Wunny Babbit would never do such a thing, would you possum?’ She said, the rodent perched on her bosom shelf playing the fool.

Jennifer always uses a baby voice when referring to Runny, which drives me bananas. This creature is a devil hiding behind a tiny patch of fur, yet she treats it like a first-born son. I’ve written to newspaper, the council, my local member of parliament even, in an attempt to vent my rage in a healthy way. Not one reply I’ve had.

But enough of that. The sun is shining and I’m walking down the street with my great big bag of styrofoam balls. The bag was moving against my back a second ago, but now it’s shuddered still. I reckon things are finally looking up.

I’m whistling as I knock on the front door (Jennifer hasn’t given me keys, says since she never leaves the house I don’t need them). The door doesn’t open for a minute. Jennifer is probably still asleep at this time of day.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ says Jennifer, eyeing me suspiciously. Her skin is perfectly clear. She wears a pink dressing grown, which splits to her cleavage. I gawp at her, not in a sexual way, but in a way that comes from fashion having moved away from exposed breasts.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day, babe,’ I say. She takes the opportunity to envelop me in her arms, winding me in the process.

‘But it’s not Valentine’s Day,’ she says as she pulls away.

‘Every day is Valentine’s Day when you’re gay, wouldn’t you say?’ I say breathlessly.

‘Wunny Babbit,’ she calls to her rat in that horrid baby voice. ‘Weena bought us a wittle pwesent’.

Runny does not appear as it normally would, in fact, Runny is nowhere to be seen.

Jennifer does not seem to be concerned by Runny’s absence and begins to pull me towards her again. I brace, expelling all the air from my lungs in anticipation. This embrace is particularly strong, and I guess the lack of oxygen doesn’t help, because as my ribcage tightens and my face squeezes to the width of a pencil, I feel a ringing in my ears, followed by a popping sound, as though a car has reversed over a football. The bag falls from my hand, spilling styrofoam balls all over the welcome mat. Mercifully, Jennifer releases me in response. I check all my ribs are still there before clutching my hand to my nose. ‘Oh my gosh sowwy baby!’ Says Jennifer. I am in too much pain to respond.

She notices the box grater first. Initially, Jennifer doesn’t realise the blood on the mat is not just from my nose.

The styrofoam balls are rather beautiful, a pale red colour, the long of a dirty pink tail curled around them. I haven’t had my morning coffee yet, but I have a strong feeling I’m really going to enjoy it today.

Ismene is a writer and seasonal fruit enthusiast who has never harmed a living creature, aside from a certain fictitious rat.

Illustration by H J Ford.