Venus flytrap – by Sagar Nair
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
My therapist suggested I get a houseplant to help practise mindfulness. I bought a Venus flytrap from Bunnings Warehouse where I volunteered at the sausage sizzle. With great ceremony, I placed the Venus flytrap on my nightstand. I fed it baby spiders and beetles. Sometimes, I popped a beetle into my mouth because I liked the crunch. It was a good source of protein.
I splurged on a swan-necked watering can, a bag of fertiliser, peppermint oil and Venus-flytrap-themed clothes. All investments for my mental health. Using glitter gel pens, I spent an afternoon drawing stars on the terracotta pot of the Venus flytrap. I unscrewed the pens and smeared the ink onto my forehead and cheeks to match the pot, to sparkle. That night, I said my daily affirmations, flopped onto my bed and stared at the Venus flytrap until I slept. This became my ritual.
I felt connected to nature. I thought I had cultivated peace. Once, I woke up with my finger inside the jaws of the Venus flytrap like a pulse oximeter.
*
One day, I got an anonymous comment on my blog: ‘Are Venus flytraps your entire personality?’ It was on a picture of me at the beach, wearing a Venus-flytrap-themed swimsuit, holding my Venus flytrap up to the sun like an offering to God. Perhaps the commenter was right. I deactivated my blog account, ate two kiwis over the kitchen sink and decided to change my personality.
I considered sending the Venus flytrap out of the window, but that felt cruel. Instead, I abandoned it on the windowsill, unwatered and unfed, leaves crisping in the summer. Let Mother Nature take the wheel, I thought. I sold my Venus-flytrap-themed clothes online, then jogged to the community centre, climbed into a donation drop bin and got myself a new wardrobe.
While doing my skincare routine, I had the urge to peel off my eyelids because they looked like Venus flytraps. I wore black eyeshadow and false eyelashes to mask the resemblance.
The false eyelashes created distance between me and the world. Everything was separated by the barrier of the lashes: stares from customers, the child who came up to me at the grocery store and said they couldn’t find their parents. Everything felt unserious.
Lying was easier. I had no shame when I told my therapist his suit was sharp, when I forged an opioid prescription, when I sent my friends an X-ray of a shattered kneecap I’d cut out from a textbook to avoid going on a hike.
I thought I had found a cheat code to life, but then my vision adjusted to the false eyelashes. The barrier vanished and everything was unfiltered again.
At Bunnings, one of my false eyelashes fell into an old man’s sausage, and I didn’t realise until he poked his tongue out at me. At first, I thought he was harassing me, and I grabbed the tongs in case things escalated – then I saw my eyelash pasted onto his tongue, browned with barbeque sauce.
He spat my eyelash onto the car park floor and asked for my boss.
I said I was a volunteer, but he said he would file a complaint anyway.
Naturally, I blamed the Venus flytrap. He stuffed the sausage into the bin, and I watched him struggle with his trolley all the way to his car. I had an urge to press my palm to the grill.
When I got home, I sprayed weed killer on the Venus flytrap. It felt like a spiritual act, a cleansing. My eyes and lungs burned but I kept spraying. The Venus flytrap curled into itself, soaked in poison. I wheezed but really I was laughing. ▼
Image: The New York Public Library - Unsplash
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