Carrot Communion
I.
Michael is lying in bed next to me, whispering sweet nothings to a bag of baby carrots.
“Damn,” he says after every bite—solemn, reverent.
“These are good carrots.”
Not once.
Not twice.
Every bite.
Like the spirit of the carrot leaves his body with each crunch, and he must acknowledge it.
I glance over, expecting irony.
But no—his face is serious.
Mournful, almost.
Like he’s communing with something holy.
Carrot Eucharist.
Body of snack, broken for you.
He’s not even touching the 32 wings and fried pickles he ordered.
No.
He’s knee-deep in beta-carotene ecstasy.
Anointed with ranch, baptized with Bud Ice.
I take one out of pity and bite it.
It’s a fucking carrot.
No cosmic flash.
Just sadness and crunch.
⸻
II.
Later, the carrots are gone.
He mourns them.
I find the empty bag draped like a plastic relic on the nightstand—
translucent and pathetic.
It’s the Shroud of Carrotlon now.
I hold it up.
“They were good carrots,” he whispers.
He’s not joking.
⸻
III.
The plushies are watching.
Paul sits in his yellow hoodie, unmoved.
Helen Judith Fox is in the closet,
under the clothes that don’t fit me anymore.
Michael calls Catnip “Nibblett,”
like he’s some forgotten Beatrix Potter character.
But he remembers them.
He knows their names.
You don’t just lie in this bed.
You earn your place.
Paul doesn’t speak.
He judges.
⸻
IV.
Sometimes I forget I’m the adult.
I make spackle cupcakes.
Resin Fruit Loops.
Deviled egg mirrors dusted with real paprika.
I create because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
I create because if I don’t, I might die.
One Valentine’s Day, I took the sticky gel letters you’re supposed to use to spell “Valentine’s Day”
on a mirror and rearranged them to say “Anal Penis Day.”
It just felt correct.
Like emotional sabotage in bubble letters.
My son didn’t even flinch.
He asked for the cereal bowls to be moved into his room.
I obliged.
He gets it.
⸻
V.
I asked Michael if he’s ever felt truly safe.
He said no.
I told him I used to escape into The Beverly Hillbillies when I was little.
That stupid banjo theme meant I had 22 minutes of safety.
Granny yelling about possums.
Predictable.
Gentle.
Nothing touched me there.
Then he told me he used to fantasize about killing his mom.
She hit him.
With belts, hangers, wooden spoons.
She mocked his addiction.
Called it weakness.
He says she’s never known pain.
I believe him.
I’ve met her.
Her voice lives in the back of my skull, narrating my worst days.
Look at this piece of shit.
Can’t even get out of bed.
I need seven espressos and half a pharmacy to put my feet on the floor.
⸻
VI.
Michael’s sister is an anesthesiologist.
Polished.
Cold.
The kind of woman who forgives you
without ever asking what you survived.
She once asked me if I had any self-worth, being with someone like him.
I didn’t answer.
You don’t know me.
You don’t know the plushes.
You weren’t there the night he said the carrots were gone
and looked like something holy had died.
⸻
VII.
I keep thinking I should leave.
But the stuffed animals know what I did.
Helen judges.
Paul watches.
And Catnip—
missing half his head since Michael broke his femur and overdosed on pain meds—
remembers everything.
⸻
VIII.
One day, I will make a final spackle cake.
On it, I’ll pipe: “I lived.”
I’ll place it next to Paul.
He won’t blink.
But I will.
And I’ll walk out wearing pants that fit.
And maybe, just maybe—
the carrots will be good again.