Fidget Toy
PeppermintParchment
The compulsion began with an errant hair that fell across Trisha’s page. She was cuddled against the brick wall of her schoolyard, her hooked nose buried deep in a book, when a slight breeze caused the dark hair to tumble across the page.
If it had been any other day, any other day besides the first day of third grade in a new school, she would have brushed the hair off the book without a second thought. If she had someone who had partnered with her on her multiplication table worksheet, if someone would have saved her a seat at lunch, if someone would have asked her to join the game of hopscotch she was jealously trying to ignore, she wouldn’t have been here. She wouldn’t have noticed the hair curl across the page, wouldn’t have noticed the rigid texture, wouldn’t have noticed the uneven split at the end. Above all else, if she wasn’t the loser new kid alone at recess, none of it would have happened. Maybe not ever.
But she was the loser new kid. And she did notice.
Trisha ran her finger along the rugged hair, pinning it against the page. It was black, just like the rest of her hair, but thick and rigid. It seemed to make a gently sloping mountain range across the pages of her book, a bumpy range of keratin running through the typeset. Trisha greatly enjoyed the texture. She followed the hair back to the root against her skull and ran her fingernails down the length of the hair shaft. Her fingertips seemed to sing with pleasure as each ridge slipped between the tight pinch of her thumb and pointer finger. She repeated this in a slow motion, pinched fingernails gently tugging at her scalp as she pulled the hair. The buildup of tension as the hair straightened as she pinched and pulled, followed by the tingle in her scalp as her fingers released the hair was a boon to her anxiety. It felt nice, in the same way she imagined it must feel nice to Mr. Whiskers when she pet him. Trisha played with the strand until, with a slightly-too-tight pinch, it parted with her scalp.
Trisha was unexpectedly disappointed when the hair broke. She considered the hair, wrapping it around her index finger again and again like an anemic, coiling snake. The bell rang, snapping her out of her reverie. She carefully placed the hair beneath her bookmark and closed the book. As she headed back into her classroom, she couldn’t help but to wonder exactly how many hairs like that one sprouted from her scalp.
Trisha lay on her stomach on her bed, her hair tossed over her left shoulder in a thick ponytail. Her hair spread before her on her bedsheets like a Geisha fan, and Trisha lovingly picked through the strands. In almost thirty minutes she had found six hairs identical to the one that was currently embraced by her book.
She was gentler with her newfound treasures, slowly tugging and caressing them with her pinched fingers, loving the way the tension danced up the strand and the quivering relief she felt when her fingers slid off the end of the hair. Her anxiety seemed to ebb and flow alongside the tightening and loosening of the strands. A pleasant, prickling tingle would shiver across her scalp each time a hair was captured and released, captured and released, captured and released. The ultimate pleasure came when a hair, root and all, would part from her scalp. She’d curl the loose hair around her finger and rub the dark, wet end lovingly across her cupid’s bow, running the black root across her skin until it was dry and shriveled. Oh, how had she never noticed the pleasures her hair could hide! Each strand was a scavenger hunt, some ridged and curly, others thin and split, and others populated with tiny knots she loved to tighten and tug until they broke the shaft. Trisha sighed happily.
It took Trisha’s parents four months and a bleeding scab the size of a nickel before they noticed their daughter’s new hobby. Fearing bullying or a rare health condition, Trisha was whisked away to a doctor, who prescribed her antibiotic cream for the scab and a psychologist for the compulsion.
Miss Thompson, a fledgling graduate with a concentration in behavioral psychology, immediately diagnosed Trisha with trichotillomania, with a hefty helping of obsessive-compulsive disorder and generalized anxiety on the side.
“You see, Mr. And Mrs. Cantrell, the root of trichotillomania is not always an easy thing to get to. I suspect that Trisha initially began pulling out her hair because it helped her feel in control of something in her life that she didn’t have control over. However, something as simple as nervousness or boredom could have triggered this change. As these meetings progress, I expect that Trisha and I will be able to trace back this compulsive development to a specific instance. However, I need both of you to understand that, even with a deep understanding of exactly what caused Trisha’s trichotillomania, curing this compulsion is an uphill battle. It is very hard to put this genie back in its bottle.”
“Unfortunately, Trichotillomania is a compulsion that brings pleasure and relief to the one experiencing it. By the time this condition starts to hurt the sufferer, such as when they start developing scabs, scarring, and bald spots, it is often too late to completely reverse and cure the compulsion. Of course, there are medications to help fight the compulsions, as well as to heal the injuries that hair pulling can cause, and I will certainly do my best to give Trisha every tool in my arsenal, but Trisha must truly want to stop pulling. And even if she does deeply want to quit, it is no guarantee that she will be able to resist the urge to pull. The tension and anxiety associated with quitting often takes a long time to manage, and it is easy to relapse,” Miss Thompson shifted in her chair, leaning forward, “I don’t mean to make you lose hope. With behavioral therapy, medication, dedication, and time, trichotillomania can be managed. Unfortunately, however, a part of Trisha will probably always feel the need to pull and break her own hair. We can manage the compulsion and teach her how to redirect her anxieties into more positive outlets, but the urge will likely always be there. And so will her hair.”
“This sounds like it’s going to take a lot of time to get a handle on…” Trisha’s father said, his hands twisting his tie, "Well, what can we do now? In the short term until she learns all these strategies?”
“I would suggest we find a suitable prescription for Trisha’s OCD. I would recommend we begin with-”
“Oh no, no medicine! We don’t want her stumbling through school, all drugged up…” Mrs. Cantrell asserted. Mr. Cantrell furrowed his brow at his wife but said nothing. She blushed, but continued, “I just mean…she’s a kid. Maybe it’s just a phase?”
“Mrs. Cantrell, OCD is not just a phase. It’s a lifelong mental health challenge that must be appropriately treated and-”
“I understand, but couldn’t we try something smaller first? Something less intrusive?”
Miss Thomspon sighed. She was used to seeing this attitude towards medicine from parents in denial. There was little she could do until the parents saw the continuing behavior spiral and relented.
Miss Thompson tapped the round, slouched shape of a stress ball on her desk.
“Have the two of you ever heard of fidget toys?”
Poppers that played with the push and pull compulsion. Spinners that kept her searching fingers occupied. Cubes that offered various puzzles to keep her mind stimulated. Tangle toys that satisfied the searching portion of her brain. All were great fidget toys that Trisha’s parents placed in her hands, and all were abandoned to gather dust on her cabinet as her fingers continuously found her hair. After searching for almost two weeks, Trisha’s parents were convinced that they had finally found the solution in the form of a gas station convenience counter toy called a Monkey Noodle. The Monkey Noodle was a wonderful invention, a textured, stretchy gob of colorful silicon that Trisha could twirl around her fingers, pull, pinch, and roll. Trisha loved it, and her parents were finally able to sigh in relief as their daughter’s hands found her hair far less often.
The appeal of the Monkey Noodle waned in six days when, after a particularly difficult math test, Trisha stomped to the back seat of the bus, pressed her face against the cool window, and began plucking her stress away. She later bounced through the front door with a red-rimmed bald spot the size of a pencil eraser in the arch of her right eyebrow.
Trisha’s parents send Miss Thompson a frantic email that night.
Miss Thompson’s reply was short:
“It’s hair. The Monkey Noodle was a great idea, and I commend you for it, but Trisha’s fixation seems to be very hair-centric. You need a toy that can better simulate the texture, tug, and snap of hair. Preferably something that would be as readily available as her hair.”
That night while the family watched The Jungle Book, an ad for fluffy ponies rolled across the screen. Trisha’s parents’ eyes met over their daughter’s increasingly balding head.
“If they are toys, why are they sold in pet stores?” The words spring, unbidden, from Mrs. Cantrell’s lips. Mr. Cantrell tugged her hand softly as the pedestrian crossing sign turns green, leading his wife to the bedraggled pet store that slouched between a vape shape and a nail salon.
“If they are toys, why do they need to eat?” Mr. Cantrell pondered as an employee led them to a selection of extra-fuzzy microfluffies.
“If they are toys, why do they seek our approval so much?” Mrs. Cantrell mumbled guiltily as the microfluffies crowded the glass wall of their enclosure, each of them trying desperately to capture the attention of Trisha’s parents.
“If they are toys, how do they feel fear?” Mr. Cantrell asked, rubbing the backs of his hand nervously as the burnt orange microfluffy they had selected was placed into a cardboard box. Its loud cries could be heard through the trio of air holes that the employee punched out of the lid.
“If they are toys, this should be good enough, shouldn’t it?” Mrs. Cantrell wondered, producing an old plastic beta fish tank from a hallway closet. The couple wiped it down with a vinegar-soaked rag. They decided to leave the blue aquarium gravel and the water-stained cave ornament inside. They nudged a slouching plastic plant into a corner, the shriveled ghosts of algae clinging to its leaves. They pushed a pair of lids requisitioned from their spice rack into the colored rocks. They filled one with water, and the other with hairball control microfluffy kibble. They placed the orange microfluffy inside and, although the gravel hurt its hooves, it danced happily in its new home.
“If they are toys, they can be confiscated by the teacher, okay?” Mr.Cantrell told his daughter as Trisha scooped the fluffy out of his enclosure and rolled it around in her palm. Her fingers sunk into the soft fur and stroked lightly. The fluffy cooed. Mr. Cantrell showed Trisha the stationary pouch that would house the fluffy when Trisha smuggles it into school, and how to unzip the top just enough to allow her fingers inside without leaving room for the fluffy to escape.
“If they are toys, it can’t feel pain, right?” Mrs. Cantrell begged her husband later that night, unshed tears gathered on her thick lashes.
Fidget Toy can’t remember ever being named. His Mummah never told him, clearly and without hesitation, what his name was. But Mummah always told him that he was her special Fidget Toy, so that must be his name, right? Fidget Toy wasn’t as pretty of a name as something like Pumpkin or Petal or Pearl, but that was okay. Fidget Toy was not a very pretty fluffy, and therefore he didn’t need a very pretty name.
Fidget Toy was surprised whenever Mummah’s Mummah and Daddeh chose him from amongst all the other fluffies that were vying for attention. Sure, Fidget Toy was doing pretty good dancies and, yes, Fidget Toy was asking them to be Nyu Mummah an’ Daddeh, but he didn’t expect to be picked. There were so many other fluffies that were prettier with better dancies! Fidget Toy only knew that he should be grateful for his Nyu Mummah and his Nyu Housie. Even if it wasn’t the bestest housie, or the bestest Mummah.
The housie wasn’t anything like the cage he had shared with his microfluffy friends in the pet store. This housie was much smaller. The thick plastic of the tank was smeared with blurred streaks that made it hard for Fidget Toy to look outside, and the sharp stench of cleaning vinegar lingered and made his nose have the biggest burnie hurties. Tiny blue pebbles poked and rolled beneath his hooves, and he could cross from one end of his tank to the other in only six big steppies! There was a plant friend that drooped in the corner, but when Fidget Toy tried to num it he discovered it was made of no-taste-pretty. A litterbox made of an empty tuna can filled with shavings sat in another corner, and Fidget Toy had to be extra careful when using it, or the serrated rim would snag at his fur or cut his hoofsies.
However, the worst part of his new housie was that he didn’t have a nestie at all! In his excitement to finally have a Nyu Mummah, he had completely overlooked that his home didn’t have even the smallest hint of a place to sleep. That was okay, though. He’d just tell Mummah when she came back.
That night Mummah got into her own nestie without even glancing at her new fluffy. Fidget Toy had the biggest heart hurties when she flicked the lights out. She went to bed without giving him huggies! She went to bed without telling him she loved him! She had forgotten about him! Nonplussed, Fidget Toy tapped his hooves on the plastic walls of his tank to catch her attention.
When Fidget Toy tried to explain to his Mummah that he didn’t have any other fluffies to make a fluffpile with, nor any grassies or blankies to build his own nestie with, she rolled her see-places and turned over in bed. He spoke to her back.
“Pwease Mummah, Fidget Toy nu can sweepies wiffout nestie o’ oddah fwuffies. Wan’ hab gud sweepies su Fidget Toy can be bestest fwuffy fo’ Mummah at schoow next bwight time! Pwease? Huu huu, am su cowd…”
She didn’t stir.
“Huu huu! Fidget Toy am su sowwy if Fidget Toy am du somefin’ bad, nu mean tu! Fidget Toy pwomise nu du it ‘gain! Pwease, nee’ sweepie pwace! Nee make nestie tu-”
“Will you shut up?” Trisha grumbled as she pulled herself out of bed. She trudged into the bathroom and returned with a handful of toilet paper and cotton balls. She dumped them unceremoniously into Fidget Toy’s fish tank.
“Here, make a nest with these.” Trisha crawled back into bed. Fidget Toy worked by the light of the moon, shaping a nest from the toilet paper in the arch of the cave ornament. He cried softly to himself as he piled the cotton balls around him and snuggled down. He closed his eyes and pretended they were his microfluffy friends.
In typical fluffy fashion, Fidget Toy completely forgot about Mummah’s cruel treatment when she scooped him up the next day and rubbed him under his chin. He was very happy to be out of his no-smell-pretty cage, and he cooed with delight as Trisha rolled him around her palm. Her fingers found the extra soft fuzz of his underbelly, and she rubbed the fluff between her fingers. The texture wasn’t as nice as that of her hair, but it would do.
“Are you ready to go to school?”
“Yus! Fidget Toy am weady tu hewp Mummah! Fidget Toy am gon’ be bestest fwuffy ebah!”
It turns out that Fidget Toy was, in fact, not as ready as he thought he was to help Mummah.
It all began with the cork, an unlubricated number meant for foals that was slightly too large for a microfluffy. Fidget Toy quelled when he saw it and tucked his burnt orange tail between his legs defensively.
“N-nu touch poopie pwace…”
“It’s either this or diapers. Would you like to wear a diaper? Are you a little baby, huh?” Trisha brandished the cork menacingly. Fidget Toy swallowed nervously.
“N-nu. Fidget Toy nu am babbeh! Am big stawwion!”
“Then you should have no trouble with a little cork like this, yeah?”
“Nu wan’!”
“Then I guess you don’t want to go to school and help Mummah?” Trisha pouted. Fidget Toy trotted in place, self-preservation battling with the need to satisfy his owner. He eventually relented and arched his backside in the air. He only scree’d a little when the cork was roughly forced in.
Next came the pencil pouch. It was a soft cream color, and the waxen smell of ancient crayons drifted from inside it. Trisha plopped it on the cabinet beside the fluffy as she continued to get ready for school. Fidget Toy sniffed at it warily.
“Nu smeww pwetty,” He observed, but Trisha ignored him.
“Take a look inside.” Trisha ordered. Fidget Toy wagged his tail in contemplation, then peeked between the flaps.
The bag was filled with an assortment of toys. Fidget Toy had never seen so many toys before! There was a ball filled with smaller balls and a blockie that was covered in buttons, but he couldn’t recognize anything else. He reared up to take a closer look and then felt a hand lifting his rump. He fell face forward into the bag, knocking his head on a yellow tube as he tumbled. His muzzle pounded with pain.
“Huu huu! Mummah, pwease gib Fidget Toy huggies, meanie pouch gib Fidget Toy wowstest nosie huwties!”
“You’ll be fine. Get comfortable in there, we’re about to leave.” Fidget Toy sniffled but said nothing else. He was beginning to realize the Mummah may have been a Meanie Mummah. He wiped his tears on the thick fluff of his forehooves.
Fidget Toy stood up, his nose and the cork in his anus throbbing in unison. His hooves slipped and slid as he attempted to scramble over the clutter of toys inside the bag. Mummah sure had a lot of toys! Fidget Toy clambered noisily towards the ball, seeking familiarity. Without warning, Trisha zipped up the pouch.
The bag was dark, and Fidget Toy was grateful for the cork, because it stopped him from making scaredy poopies the moment the pouch was closed. He cried out immediately, releasing a high-pitched squeal. His Mummah didn’t warn him that the bag would make it dark time!
“Mummah! Hewp Fidget Toy! Dawk time am bad fo’ fwu-” The air was knocked out of the microfluffy as his bag was lifted and tossed unceremoniously into Trisha’s bookbag. A cascade of fidget toys engulfed the stallion, and he was struck dumb by the weight of a metal spinning toy that crashed into his ribcage. His gasps and coughs followed Trisha out the door and into the waiting school bus where she, once again, sat alone.
The cork was dry and chafed Fidget Toy’s backside, but the worst part was how it itched and stung anytime the fluffy was jostled, which was often, considering Fidget Toy spent most of his day zipped inside a pencil pouch and carried between classrooms. Fidget Toy didn’t understand exactly why he was in the pouch, or what school was, or why his Mummah needed him to be there with her, but that was okay. He trusted his Mummah with the naivete that only a fluffy could muster.
He spent the majority of his first day in the pencil pouch blindly playing with the toys around him. At first it was scary being alone in the dark, and he spent almost an hour hunkering down beneath the spinning metal toy, heart pounding, afraid that a monster would appear at any second and make him into a meal. When the monster failed to manifest Fidget Toy extracted himself. He fondled at the spinning metal toy sightlessly, but quickly grew bored. He tried to roll the ball around, but the close quarters of the pencil pouch combined with the litter of toys made it impossible. He eventually settled on the button-covered blockie, enjoying the gentle clack of the buttons in the darkness. His fear was quickly replaced with boredom.
Fidget Toy learned exactly why his Mummah needed him at lunch time that day.
Fidget Toy was very excited when the smell of nummies drifted into his bag. He scrambled to the top of the pile of toys and pressed his hooves against the golden seam of the zipper. His stomach grumbled. He hadn’t eaten all day!
“Mummah! Mummah! Nummies fo’ Fidget Toy?” The stallion whined.
“Quiet!” Trisha grumbled and, for the first of many times to come, shook the pencil pouch aggressively. Fidget Toy tumbled like a load of clothes in a dryer. The shaking ceased, and Fidget Toy cried quietly as he exhumed himself from beneath the meanie metal spinny toy again. He heard other humans talking to Mummah about something called “lunch”, but he dared not to utter even a peep. A few forevers passed.
Trisha unzipped the pouch to reveal the dark orange fluffy suckling its hoof. She softened slightly when she saw the thick trails of tears down its fat cheeks. She glanced around the cafeteria halfheartedly, although she knew no one would be joining her at her table for this meal, either. She pulled a binder from her bookbag and propped it open on the table to serve as a divider between her and the rest of the cafeteria. She extracted the fluffy. Fidget Toy cooed happily and trotted in place. It felt so good to stretch!
“I’m sorry I shook you. But you can’t be talking like that, where anyone can hear you. You’ll get us in trouble. Toys aren’t allowed at school!”
Fidget Toy cocked his head in confusion. He didn’t know what “school” was, but it must not be a very fun place if toys weren’t allowed there! He decided his Mummah must really love toys, if she was willing to bring so many to school when it was against the rules. He finally understood why Mummah had brought him to school. Mummah needed him to protect all her toys! That’s why he was in the pouch! His chest swelled with pride. She had given him a very important job indeed!
“Nu wowwy Mummah! Fidget Toy undastand! Wiww nu make noisies so toysies nu am taken ‘way by meanie schoow!”
Trisha picked at her salad with a weary smile. It wasn’t exactly what she meant when she said toys weren’t allowed, but if it kept the fluffy quiet, that was good enough for her. She was just a child, but even she was perplexed with how stupid the fluffy was. Didn’t it even know it was a toy?
The microfluffy’s stomach growled loudly. Its eyes were as wide as nickels as it watched her raise a forkful of salad to her mouth. A fat ribbon of drool dribbled from its muzzle. Trisha grimaced in disgust.
“Stop staring at me, you weirdo.”
The toy pressed its ears back against its skull, “Am sowwy Mummah. Fidget Toy am su hungwy! Nu hab nummies aww bwight time!”
Trisha sighed but relented. She thought it was endlessly stupid that a toy needed to eat, and even worse that it needed a litterbox, but she was willing to put up with it if it meant she got better. If she could just stop picking her hair, she could have pretty hair styles. The other kids would stop whispering behind their hands, or pointing at her bald spots, or giving her sidelong glances as she tugged at her hair during class. She’d have friends if she could just keep her stupid hands off her stupid hair. She hoped this stupid fluffy would be her salvation.
She lifted the orange microfluffy and slid a napkin beneath it. She placed a few leaves of her salad and a chunk of her roll in front of it. The toy profusely thanked her—it was much more polite than her talking baby dolls, at least— and began eating. While its back was turned towards her, she grimaced and, nose scrunched like a hog searching for truffles, she pried the cork from its backside. It jumped in pain but didn’t so much as chirp. It was a good toy.
“If you need to use the bathroom, you need to go now, okay? It’ll be your only chance until we get home.” She pointed towards two napkins she had stacked nearby. The fluffy began waddling towards them, but she stopped it.
“Eww, gross! Wait until I’m done eating!” The fluffy coyed but said nothing. It returned to its meager scraps and ate slowly.
Trisha nibbled at her own lunch.
“I hope you’re ready for the math test next period, Ms. Cantrell. Fractions can be a bit tricky!” Trisha’s math teacher shouted genially as he wobbled past on his cane. Trisha dived to cover the fluffy with her hands, but her teacher didn’t so much as glance at her table. Trisha’s hands retracted and immediately buried themselves in her hair.
“I completely forgot about the math test.” She turned horrorstruck eyes on the microfluffy. It sat back on its rump.
“Wha’ am math?”
“Counting and stuff, you know, addition, subtraction, decimals and all that.” Trisha’s hands slid frantically over her hair. Her fingers tingled with the need to pluck, to tug, to pull. They searched the dark, curly depths for the perfect strand.
“Fidget Toy can count! Fidget Toy hewp Mummah! Dis am “one”!” It held up a hoof and wiggled it, “Dis am “tuu”!” Another hoof joined the first, wiggling, “Dis am “thwee”! An’ dis am “fouw”!” The fluffy rolled onto its back and wiggled all four of its legs wildly in the air. Trisha’s eyes raked over the curled, soft hair of the fluffy’s belly. Suddenly she remembered why her parents had bought her this thing, and why they insisted she carry it with her.
Her trembling hands left her own hair and quickly, as if she were afraid she was going to be caught stealing, she plucked at the downy hair of the fluffy’s stomach. A few orange tufts returned with her pinched fingers.
“Owwies! Mummah, dem scwatchies am tuu wough fo’ fwuffies!”
Trisha said nothing. She grasped at one of the toy’s back legs and tugged it towards her. Static danced across its back as it slid across the table.
“Mummah wan’ pway?” It asked, attempting to scramble to its hooves. She pressed a single finger against its ribcage, and it scuttled on its back like an overturned beetle. She felt the thing that passed for the toy’s heart pick up speed beneath her finger.
“Nu wike dis game, Mummah…”
“You don’t have to.” She buried her fingers in the soft underbelly fur and began.
Mummah was a Meanie Mummah! The Meaniest Mummah! The Worstest, Meaniest Mummah! Fidget Toy squirmed beneath her prodding fingers, his hooves still waving wildly in the air. Her fingers plucked slowly at his tummy fur, pulling the strands as taut as they would go and releasing. His belly was soft and round, made to give the bestest huggies ever, and the fur was easily plucked from the skin. Fat tears ran down his face and he battered Mummah’s searching fingers with sorry hoofsies. His bowels released in pain and fear, painting a brown strike across the crumb-covered table.
“Nu wike! Nu wike! Wowstest huw-” A finger was roughly shoved inside his mouth. He attempted to bite at it, but his teeth were made for soft nummies like kibble and skettis, and Mummah didn’t even notice. All he could do was cry as his fluff was torn from his tummy.
Trisha didn’t find the fluffy’s fur to be as satisfying as her own hair. She didn’t get to feel the tingle in her scalp as the hair was pinched and pulled, nor did the fluffy have the rigid texture that she adored, but its fur was a good substitution. It kept her own fingers from raking her scalp or tugging her own strands, and that’s all she needed. Just a little help. A mental reset.
Before she knew it, the lunch bell had rung. She scooped the fluffy in her pencil pouch. Its gentle cries were drowned out by students returning to class. She hurried on to math, where she would score a respectable 82% on her test.
The afternoon custodian was extremely confused when he found a pile of rusty orange hair curled around a smattering of blood and a spatter of feces on a lonely lunch table in the corner. He felt pity for whatever mouse had met its end in an elementary school cafeteria.
Fidget Toy had the biggest heart happies when he was unceremoniously dumped back into his repurposed fish tank. Trisha tossed a few pellets of kibble in his bowl and immediately went downstairs to enjoy her own dinner. The stallion sat on his rump and leaned back against the blurry plastic wall of the fishtank. He examined his aching stomach.
His previously soft and uniform tummy was patchy, and the remaining hairs were twisted into lopsided locks. The flesh that poked through the gaps was an angry red and speckled with grainy blood. A few patches of fur were stained brown, congealed and knotted with dried blood and tiny bits of his white flesh. He sobbed. He didn’t have the prettiest fluff ever, but he still loved his fluff! How was he supposed to help keep the fluffpile warm, or give the bestest huggies, with a tummy that was missing fluff! He sobbed even harder when he realized he didn’t have a fluffpile, or even another fluffy to hug.
Fidget Toy was overtaken with wracking sobs. He hated school! He hated Mummah! He hated the dark toy pouch! He missed his tank with all his fluffy friends, he missed his fluffpile, he missed the soft shavings and the litterbox made of plastic! Most of all he hated himself for doing the bestest dancies and getting adopted by this meanie family. This was all his fault!
He lay, belly-down, across the aquarium floor. The gravel poked at his wounds, but it was worth it for the coolness that soothed the throbbing flesh. He sobbed himself to sleep, grateful that he’d never have to go to school again.
Fidget Toy went to school again. And again. And again.
He learned to hate math. Mummah wasn’t good at math. During class her frantic fingers would reach inside the pencil pouch and search for the trembling fluffy. As soon as Fidget Toy heard the tell-tale tapping of the math teacher’s cane as he entered the classroom he’d dive behind the button-blockie toy, or squirm beneath the metal spinny toy, or attempt to hide inside the popping tube. Even his bestest hiding spots were quickly sussed out by Mummah’s probing fingers. When she found him, she’d use one finger to pin him in place, bracing him against the part of the pouch that touched her desk. Her thumb and forefinger would search his fluff indiscriminately, plucking at the soft fur behind his ears, the coils of his forelocks, the smooth spirals of his tail. If he dared to huu huu or cry out she’d flick him in his muzzle, leaving the bare flesh bruised and bloodied. Fidget Toy was reduced to soaking what little remained of his cheek fluff with silent tears.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Although Fidget Toy didn’t understand that his Mummah hurt him due to her compulsive trichotillomania, he knew that his fur comforted her, in some way. In the classes that Trisha enjoyed the fluffy received luxurious treatment. During English Trisha’s hand would creep inside the bag and scoop Fidget Toy up. She’d squeeze him softly, and Fidget Toy would sigh in contentment. It was just like a hug from a fluffy friend! She’d run her fingers through his fur, not searching, but relishing the downy softness and gentle curl of the stallion’s coat. In History class, where she sat in the very back, she’d sometimes stack up two piles of books on either side of her desk, lay her pencil pouch across the head of the desk, then remove him from the bag completely. She’d let him toddle across her desk and sometimes roll the ball from the bag for him to quietly chase. In these moments Fidget Toy could almost forget what a meanie his Mummah was. He even loved her, sometimes.
The months passed.
Trisha’s confidence was blossoming alongside her hair. No longer did bald spots peek through the dark waves, and the scabs along her hairline had shrunk to pinpoints. An acne cream prescribed by Miss Thompson had helped repair the remnants of the plucking scars that framed her face and neck. Her scalp, once a throbbing swath of weeping redness, no longer stung with irritation and inflammation. Her previously uneven and patchy hair had been cut back into a cute, curly bob, too short to fall in front of her eyes and trigger her compulsion to tear at it. It was slowly regaining its previous volume, now that it was free of Trisha’s destructive ministrations.
Trisha had begun to reach out to her classmates. She loomed at the edges of hopscotch games, chasing down the tossed rocks when they bounced outside the squares, her anxiety still holding her back from jumping into the game herself. She offered to swing the rope in jump rope, and could be found lingering near games of tag, always hoping that a fellow classmate might mistake her as a player and accidentally tag her in. Her shaky confidence was stretching its muscles, feeling out its legs, and slowly learning to walk.
All of this was thanks to Fidget Toy, who was more scab than fur.
Trisha cringed when she had to touch the toy. It was covered in uneven, bulky scabs. Its stomach and back were a stretch of thick and bulging crusts, brown and red and green intermingled across scarlet, irritated flesh. A weeping sore had developed in the warm crease of the microfluffy’s right rear leg, and it licked at it constantly. Its cheeks, previously pudgy and firm, sagged nakedly under the weight of the scabs. A delicate spray of blood left from a particularly violent plucking of fur left beads across its muzzle like a constellation of freckles. All that remained of its tail was a burnt orange tuft, save for a trio of frazzled hairs that slumped wearily between its knees. The few hairs that managed to twist their way beneath the scarred landscape and blossom along the fluffy’s back and stomach were sharp and oily, made thick and rigid from their arduous journey through the inflamed skin. It trembled ceaselessly, forever cold and anxiety ridden.
Fidget Toy hadn’t been a very pretty fluffy, but he still missed his fur terribly. His Mummah had taken almost all of it. It wasn’t fair! It was his fluff, and he would have shared if Mummah had asked, but she had stolen it from him! Fidget Toy buried his face in his hooves and cried. Why was his Mummah so meanie? She didn’t even use the fluff to keep herself warm, she just pulled it off and left it lying wherever she was! She didn’t even help give his boo boos lickie cleanies after she was done, she simply tossed him back in the pencil pouch! All the pretty toys that shared the dark pouch with him were smeared with his boo boo juice, and this made Fidget Toy even more upset. Mummah didn’t love her toys at all!
Fidget Toy gnawed at the aching sore on his underbelly. It was incredibly itchy, with puckered edges and a sticky scab that never hardened. It didn’t taste pretty, and gave him the worstest hurties when he cleaned it, but what was he to do? His Mummah wouldn’t even listen when the fluffy begged for huggies to make the hurties go away. Fidget Toy huu huu’d to himself. If he was still in his tank with all the other microfluffies he wouldn’t need his Mummah’s help! He’d have so many friends that would give his boo boo lickie cleanies, and he’d have so many huggies that it wouldn’t hurt at all! Why did he do dummy dancies and get adopted by this horrible, meanie Mummah?! The stallion seethed inside the pouch and bucked blindly at the cloth walls. A narrow scab split down his side and cracked up his legs, and he cried out in pain. Trisha shook the bag in annoyance. Fidget Toy was tossed against the zipper and tumbled downward. The spinny toy clattered down on his back, but the fluffy didn’t move. He crumbled inward.
“Will you be my partner?” Trisha was startled out of her reverie. It was Math class, and her hand had been buried inside the pencil pouch, anxiously plucking at the few hairs that were left between the fluffy’s ears. She withdrew her hand quickly, shakily zipping up the pouch. Her heart skipped a beat as she noticed the thin sheen of blood on her fingers. She tucked her fingers against her palm, hiding them from the girl who stood before her.
She was the new kid, Andrea or Ansley or something like that. She had chosen the desk next to Trisha. Brown eyes blinked behind their spectacles as she awaited Trisha’s answer.
“You know, for the project,” The girl gestured at the board.
Trisha was flustered, “Oh, um, yes! But I’m not very good at math.”
“That’s okay, I am. I’ll help you. My name is Angela.” She stuck out a hand. Trisha grabbed it immediately, only realizing her folly when she saw the smears of toy blood shining on her fingertips.
“Why me?” The words were unbidden, and Trisha blushed wildly when she heard herself say them. Angela shrugged.
“I like your hair.”
Angela was incredibly shrewd, though that was a word Trisha wouldn’t learn for a few more years. Her biting wit was only overshadowed by her deep need to gossip. She spent their lunch periods updating Trisha on who had been seen kissing who under the slide at recess, who had gotten their phone confiscated in class, and whose parents were going through a divorce. She mocked other girls outfits, made fun of boys who had dirty knees, and even made rude sounds when the short bus arrived during the morning drop offs. Angela was a bully, a fact that Trisha was quickly made aware of, but Trisha didn’t care. She finally had a friend.
Trisha didn’t care, that was, until Angela turned those cold brown eyes upon her.
Angela had noticed how close Trisha kept her pencil pouch to her. She noticed the way her fingers crept inside during class, how they always searched but never emerged with what she had found. She had noticed how she always snuck a few crumbs off her plate at lunch, folded neatly in a napkin and slipped into her back pocket, and how that napkin would disappear into the pencil pouch soon after. She noticed how twitchy Trisha would get if Angela’s hands moved close to the pencil pouch. But most of all, she noticed the blood that had shown on Trisha’s fingers during their first handshake, and its almost daily recurrence.
Angela struck the day before winter break.
They were working on a multiplication table, their desks scooted together in a crooked line. Angela purposely bore down with her pencil. The lead snapped.
“Could you sharpen this for me, Trish?”
Trisha hesitated. Her eyes shot towards her pencil pouch, and Angela could see the cost benefit analysis running through her head. Trisha shrugged, “Yeah, okay, I got it Ang.” The pencil was exchanged. The trap was set.
Angela had her eager hands spelunking in the bag as soon as Trisha had crossed the room to the sharpener. She parted the lips of the bag and angled it towards the light. Fidget spinners, poppers, fidget cubes, a stress ball…Angela was kind of disappointed. She burrowed through the plastic mess inside. Her fingers met something rugged and warm. She jumped, startled. What kind of toy kept itself warm like this? She pulled it out curiously.
A cracked, bumpy ball shuddered in her palm. It trembled hardily, and two yellow eyes appeared in the scabbed remnants of a face.
“Nyu fwiend?”
Angela screamed.
The car ride home was unlike the rowdy bus ride Fidget Toy was used to. Trisha’s parents had been called, and Trisha was sent home early. The silence in the car was like a heavy blanket. Even the simple fluffy, shivering from the air conditioning and the adrenaline pumping through his veins, recognized the calm before the storm.
“You ruined my life.” Trisha dumped Fidget Toy and the menagerie of plastic that had been his only companions into the fishtank. He trembled, hunkering down amongst his fellow fidget toys.
“N-nu mean tu, Mummah. A-am sowwy.” Fidget Toy knew it was useless before the words had even left his mouth. He trotted nervously. Rivulets of blood ran down cracked scabs like pyroclastic flow.
Trisha said nothing. She moved around her room, collecting toys under her arms. When every fidget toy she had had been gathered she dumped them inside the fishtank. Fidget Toy was buried under an avalanche of neon plastic and shiny metal. He struggled upwards, scrambling up the rapidly forming mountain, his sticky blood marking his path. Trisha watched the fluffy, detached.
“Pwease Mummah, Fidget Toy am su sowwy! Nu mean tu be wowstest fwuffy!”
Trisha didn’t respond. She heaved the fish tank off her cabinet. Fidget Toy wailed as the toys shifted below him, threatening to swallow him with a plastic maw.
He understood where his Mummah was taking him when he saw the trash can’s hungry, gaping mouth yawning on the curb.
“Nuuuuu! NUUUU! Nu am twashies! Pwease Mummah, pwease! Fidget Toy pwomise wiww be gud fwuffy! Nu am twashies!” Fidget Toy screeched wildly. He reared up on his back legs and scraped his hooves along the side of the tank rabidly. The velvet pads clicked dully off the plastic walls of the tank. Freedom taunted him from six inches overhead, a slice of winter skyline bobbing in time to Trisha’s steps.
“NUUU! NUUU! NU AM FAIW! Fidget Toy am gud fwuffy! Wet Mummah take aww Fidget Toy’s pwetty fwuff, wet Mummah gib wowstest huwties, pwotect aww of Mummah’s toysies! Nu cwy o’ ask fo skettis o’ speshaw fwiend o’ eben fo’ pwetty fwuff back! Huu huu! NUUUU!”
Trisha dumped the tank and all its contents into the garbage can. Fidget Toy collapsed with a gasp, his fall softened by the cascade of toys around him. The contents of the tank lurched and then were still.
Trisha took a long, final look into the can. Wide yellow eyes, brimmed with tears, shined up at her between pitted expanses of scabs. The toy raised its arms, a final, desperate plea splitting its muzzle.
“Gib huggies?”
The lid of the garbage can clinked shut.
A naked, scarred, and scabbed microfluffy stirred inside, encased in a tomb of disposable plastic and cheap metal. A trembling ball of life glimmered, then flickered, and then, finally, faded into the cold depths of the winter night. Fidget Toy trembled no more.
fuck her parents, especially her mom for not wanting to put her on medication.