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At thirty I’ve either outlived or successfully written off nearly every person who once took up space in my life. My old friends refused to grow and remained in a permanent cycle of self-hatred toward each other, surviving off of morsels of dopamine disguised as gossip that I could no longer tolerate. My elders and magical mentors became either too old to formulate coherent thoughts or like the rest of my family, are now dead and ashes.

A masculine groan echoes from the corner, forcing my sleepy eyes open.

“Oh shit.” I scramble off the bed in a hurry, “Is he still alive?” I ask knowing well she can’t answer, turning on the light before I slide into my cozy slippers to investigate.

Chewie continues to do what she does best.

She masticates.

“Chewbacca.” I call her by her full name, tone set to chastise.

The crunching stops.

Like a well trained beast she opens what any reasonable person would call a mouth, exposing three rows of razor sharp teeth on the top as well as the bottom. All I can see are the legs of the polo-wearing country-club ass-bag I found at a local dive bar now lodged deep into the throat of my plant companion.

Okay, so feeding her a human wasn’t part of the plan. It’s not my fault Chadrick Dickchad over here wouldn’t take no for an answer and followed me for three blocks after I left the bar last night. It’s definitely not my fault he tried to get inside the shop and then got aggressive when I pulled out my pepper spray.

Itmightbe my fault that the plant I’ve made sentient has becomesomewhatprotective and decided to start turning some of my less favorable encounters into midnight snacks.

It might also not be the first time something like this has happened.

His legs are chewed to shit, minced meat with some shreds of clothing dangling from the plant’s pointed teeth. She doesn’t mind the clothes, but she still whines as I examine the situation. She’s an overgrown baby. I have to grab the stepstool nearby and move it in front of her so I can get a better view into her planthole.

It’s hard to see from this far back, but the other option involves crawling inside fully. It’s not a problem, sure it’s a challenge avoiding getting cut by one of her many razor-sharp teeth, but the issue itself is that I’ve already bathed and getting covered in the latex goop Chewie excretes from her mouth is not something I care for.

“Can you lean down a bit, sweet girl? Kinda hard to see from here.” I ask because somehow she understands me.

I realized that early on in her growth.

She angles herself so that her opening is directly above my head and her mouth comes ajar, pieces of the man showering down on me like a burst pipe–but instead of rain, it’s sloppy Joseph filling. Bloody, chunky, tangled in clothes, sloppy joe.

Hold the barbecue sauce, because I’m barely even sure his name was Joseph.

I go to wipe blood off my face but it’s no use, my hands are just as covered and cause me to smear it over my eyes further, making it impossible to see. Pulling my shirt over my head, I use the inner fabric to clean the gunk from my eyelashes. That’s when I’m able to peer into the depths of the open mouth on Chewbacca’s trap where the Rolex twinkles, still stuck on her digestive glands.

Reaching up onto my tippy toes I can almost grab it, “A little more.” I grunt as she practically engulfs me into her opening. I dislodge it with a tug, but somehow the action forces her to heave and once more I’m covered in the first half of tonight’s meal. The quasi-digested half.

I gag, but hold it back, dreading that now I’ll be spending the rest of the morning cleaning this mess instead of sleeping.

Just what I need.

“Hope you feel better.” I sigh.

At least arealdog would be eating his own vomit now.

two

. . .

America

“Williams, everyone is struggling right now.”I groan exhaustively before moving the phone from my ear for the incoming barrage of criticism he dishes out so well.

“You are not everybody, America Corsetti.” He reminds me in his snobbiest tone. “You are the daughter of the senator, and the future president.”

“I kno–”

“No, you don’t know anything little girl.” My father gets on the line like he’s been listening to the call the entire time. He likely has, because he’s on the same landline as Williams but from the upstairs phone instead.