Who among us doesn’t remember that first year of the pandemic, cooped up in our walls as we stared desperately at our screens, large and small, waiting for the end?
Or perhaps you are one of those who speaks of that time smilingly, having used it as a moment to pause, to reflect, to turn your life in direction you meant for it, to go back to grad school, to learn how to bake…
My scars from that period have healed, mostly. They are only visible under the strongest summer sun, like a unique invisible ink, a complex pattern of narrow white lines running across my face and back. My mutilation remains, of course.
I was living with my then-girlfriend, Lisa, in those early pandemic days, in a small apartment. We worked long hours, and had had long commutes pre-pandemic, and it was only after we were forced inside to work from home that we realised we lived in ugly surroundings and ate shit food. Like the rest of us, we started to learn to cook and bake frantically, to save our slender sanity, and tried to make our place look pretty.
Lisa first spotted the houseplant during one of our once-day-for-your-mental-health walks around our neighbourhood. It wasn’t particularly pretty- a woodsy squat stem the circumference of an adult human wrist, out of which trailed a sad assortment of narrower yellowing stalks and curling long leaves with serrated edges. It was easy to see why it had been dumped by a trash bin.
The price was right though, and impulsively we picked it up and brought it back, putting it by the living room window. We even occasionally remembered to water it. The negligent care seemed to suit it, for it flourished and didn’t die, a new green fuzz appearing on the central stem, while the trailing stalks and leaves acquired a rich deep emerald tone.
It was the first week of June 2020. I was working at my desk when I heard Lisa’s short confused scream. I went to the living room, where she was standing stock still. At first I though she was staring out of the window.
“What is it darling?”
She covered her face with her hands “that thing- it was moving. The stalk thingies- kind of crawling across the floor-“ she mumbled.
“What?”
She removed her hands from her face. “Sorry- I must have been staring at the screen too long- never mind” she said. And then in a brighter voice, continued “Did the grocery order arrive? I’m excited to make this new pasta sauce!”
Her excitement was well-justified, for our homemade pasta sauce turned out beautifully, a rich crimson festooned with small golden-brown meatballs veiled lightly with parmesan. I heaped my plate high, enjoying the scent of homemade food which I realised I had not had regularly since childhood. Then Lisa called me over to the kitchen sink to wash my hands. Dutifully, I stepped over, and scrubbed away.
We returned to the table, and sat down. I glanced down at my plate, then at the serving dish, then at Lisa’s place.
“What’s wrong babe?” asked Lisa, expertly twirling her fork.
“I only have one meatball” I grumbled. “I’m sure I put more. And there’s only one left in the dish.”
“Are you accusing me of stealing your meatballs?” asked Lisa. I think she meant to say it lightly, but didn’t quite pull it off.
Something in her face prompted me to stop talking and start eating. The sauce was delicious, and yet a subtle tension ruined the flavour.
After we were done and clearing away the table, I noticed a few drops of the sauce, leading away from the dish, towards the plant. I went over to it, where the trail stopped. I looked with confusion at the glossy emerald tangle of stalks and leaves, overflowing from the small plastic pot and almost hiding the circular central stalk, now filling the pot.
Was Lisa playing some elaborate prank on me? I leaned towards the plant “Lisa, buddy here is telling me it saw you take my meatballs!”
Lisa dropped the plate she was holding, and it shattered into a zillion deadly pieces. We both yelped at the incredibly loud crash. Silently, she turned to get a broom, and equally wordlessly, I left to my workspace. The silence did not dissipate by bed time, and our bedroom remained unsurprisingly dead that night.
Over the weekend, we decided to make roast beef. We splurged on the correct cut of beef, and even bought a meat thermometer. In the joy of working together, we warmed towards each other, the meatball incident behind us.
Finally, it was ready. We pulled it out of the oven, and put it on the counter top to rest. The amazing aroma filled the apartment.
Just then, zoom called from my laptop. I went to answer.
“Don’t rush” said Lisa. “I’m going to take a shower”.
About ten minutes later, I closed my laptop and went back to the kitchen- and froze.
There was no sign of the glorious roast beef. The roasting dish was empty save for the juices and a smattering of veggies.
“Lisa?” I called.
“Almost done” she answered gaily from the bathroom.
And then the movement caught my eye. A rustle of green and brown. By the window.
I started walking towards the plant. Some instinct made me stop in the kitchen and grab the shears.
The bush of wiry stalks and curly leaves seemed to have doubled overnight, almost as big as coffee table now. The shreds of brown beef caught up in the green were clearly visible.
Something snapped in me. It wasn’t just the beef. I just couldn’t bear this extra weirdness happening right here, in my own home where I was supposed to be safe. Unthinkingly, I lunged at the plant.
The stalk lashed out across my face and back, and I yelped in pain as the serrated edges pierced my skin. Furious at the whipping, I snapped my shears blindly at the stalks, and several fell to the floor, writhing like thin green snakes.
And then a wiry stalk shot out, wrapped itself around the wrist of the hand holding the shears and began to squeeze. I dropped the shears, and screamed in agony as the stalk dug through my flesh.
Blood spurted upwards and I felt my delicate wrist bones snapping. I screamed again as my severed hand fell, my fingers still helplessly twitching.
Lisa ran in as I passed out.
***
We told the paramedics it was self-harm. They were too burned out and had seen too much shit in those months to care. After I was released from hospital I went straight to my parents’ place. Lisa called a couple of times to sort out subletting our apartment and sending over my stuff. We didn’t talk about breaking up, we already knew it was over.
I never asked what she did with the plant.