With Whom I Share My Tea

Artist Statement: With Whom I Share My Tea
In my writing, I wanted to embody the concept of “naming” one’s mental illness, a coping mechanism that allows people to create distance from maladaptive thoughts and feelings¹. This method grants patients a sense of volition, helping them no longer define themselves solely by their diagnosis. My narrative takes this practice a step further by personifying mental illness as a living, breathing creature. Specifically, I wanted to capture what it feels like to live with intrusive thoughts of non-suicidal self-injury. In my short story, a young woman coexists with a fictional creature who slowly consumes her life, the creature posing as a metaphor for her illness. The story explores not only the torment of such thoughts but also the paradoxical comfort they can provide.
My prose draws from gothic realism, influenced by writers such as Sylvia Plath and Amanda Lehr. Like them, I wanted to explore the body as a site for psychological tension— a place where inner pain manifests outwardly. Through a poetic voice laced with figurative language, my story delves into the dark and grotesque aspects of the psyche. I hope readers will confront their discomfort in recognizing their own “creatures”.
Critics may argue that giving illness such a vivid voice could risk amplifying its power. This may even become dangerous in exacerbating one’s symptoms. However, by giving form to the abstract, I wanted to show that naming pain can be both liberating and terrifying, as it paves the way for honest conversations about mental health.

With Whom I Share My Tea
I watched him sit on the stool— legs wobbling beneath his weight. His hooves scraped the hardwood floors, slow and deliberate. Bony elbows pressed against the table, mocking every etiquette lesson my grandmother ever forced on me. Each breath rattled through him, like the air itself rebelled within his body. Or maybe he was stubborn, bargaining with each inhale.
Why have you come into my home? Why do your jagged teeth gleam at me, drooling warmth onto my furniture? Why do your beady eyes beckon me to speak, as if I were the one who had invited you in?
One night, I heard a scratching knock on my door. Curiosity pulsed in my chest, and I slid the wood open, only to be met with a noxious stench. In my robin-egg blue doorway, framed by lavender pots and daffodils, stood a creature.
He was patchworked with scales and forgotten fur. His claws were long, yellowed, and caked with dirt. And his smile? Worst of all— a discordance of organic shapes, with whiffs of a rotting fish floating through.
He wiped his muddy hooves on my doormat. I almost laughed at the manners, so polite for something that reeked of decay. He strided through the doorway with the confidence of a returning soldier, as if this were his home. As if I should be praising him, fawning over his bumpy skin as if the growths were medals. The smell thickened, marking the room as his. I couldn’t tell if it was the fumes or shock that left me standing, paralyzed.
By Tuesday, I seemed to be roommates with the gnarling creature. His knuckles popped like haunted floorboard creeks, and his stomach gurgled like a bottomless well. His language was all grunts and huffs, and I found myself playing the role of an anthropological researcher. My disgustingly grotesque case study was far more complex than I’d foreseen.
We sat across my kitchen table, pretending to sip tea. The Earl Grey steam was a sorry excuse for an air freshener. I felt my mood beginning to simmer, fighting my body’s urges to mimic the kettle’s shriek. I wanted the words, the anger, the raw passion to flow out of me. I wanted to boil over, flood until the room drowned in my intensity.
“For why are you here? In my home? Sipping on my tea?”
My confrontational declarations disguised a little girl’s plea.
He drew a long sip, almost comical, his smugness bubbling beneath the surface. I imagined the honey melting across his tongue, sliding down the raw lining of his throat. The soothing blanket draped his scarred inner flesh. How easily the sophisticated blend washed away at his taste buds’ kiss.
No words were said. Just beady eyes open too long— a blink skipped.
He smashed the porcelain against the table, a cacophony of violent ceramic clinks. The china cup now mirrored his teeth. A floral design now resembled the garden’s weeds. Barbed edges invited blood on his calloused palms. A sharp pain, however, seemed to soothe him, at least more than the honey. A strange envy stirred as vermilion beaded on his skin, the color of my own unspoken longing; the quiet ache to feel, even when it hurt.
The Earl Grey elixir colonized the table, claiming each wooden inch. Porcelain dust swirled in the liquid, a mosaic of tiny ruins. Staring at the wreckage, I wanted fiery lava to rise inside of me. I yearned to erupt with anger, splattering heat, as emotions overtook me. But instead, my insides found an eerie cool, a gobbet of snow melting in my chest. Each dripping drop created a quiet pool of dread.
For what have I let in my home? With whom am I sharing my precious tea?
The days that followed were spent walking on eggshells that seemed to rot beneath me, slicing into my feet. I tried to turn my fear into something useful. I ground the broken shells into paint², my small escape from this malicious place. But every misstep, every decibel too loud, was met with his putrid embrace.
The creature moved like my shadow, a reflection of the darker parts I refused to see. He gathered my mistakes and fed them back to me as shame. A key left out of place? Turned into scratching streaks on the door, bronze metal wearing down its shape. A dinner of greasy food on my plate? Turned into chunked liver and burnt bread in the blender, the minced nutrients stinking up the place.
He never forgave. No compassion riddled his warped, hybrid face. All he seemed to crave was discipline, even if he had to throw a steaming cup of it in my face. Everything needed to be right; I had to be right. Otherwise, it would be his reign.
My home, once scented with jasmine candles and lined with ruffled curtains, soured into a dim, airless place. His grunts became laws, his silence turned into taxation to pay. My creature overthrew my small republic of peace— the fragile belief that some imperfection could survive. That my world could hold both forgiveness and grace. But in his rule, even mercy felt forbidden, and every flaw was treason.
As he stayed, I witnessed my reflection change. I was no longer the young girl who drank Earl Grey tea, waiting for comfort in the steam. My eyes darkened; shadows cascaded down my face. My body no longer moved with ease. It flinched, braced, always anticipating the next traumatic play. I grew sick often, with a nagging cough or feverish malaise, the fatigue gnawing the marrow of me, hollowing what remained. My body became a relic, bones groaning as the small shimmer of my thing-power³ drained away.
I stayed in bed for most of the days, peering through the cracked doorway to see if he was finally gone. I’d slither out of my sheets and twist the knob by just enough for a sliver of light to break through. One glance was all I needed: a flash of scales, the slow flick of his tail. When his presence registered, I’d dart back into the covers, pretending the blanket over my head would guard me. Only the nothingness of sleep offered the solace that I so desperately needed.
On an early autumn day, where the air was crisp and crimson leaves promised change, another knock on my door came. The sound was brisk and certain, quick taps of knuckles against varnished wood. A polite pattering, for both the creature and me to hear.
I dragged myself out of bed, pulling a blanket around my bony frame. The fabric’s folds hung loose and uneven, hiding what little was left of me. I rubbed sleep from my eyes and twisted clumps of brown hair into a make-shift bun.
Who could it be? Don’t they know this house is no fun? Not welcome to anyone?
With a painful breath, reactivating forgotten bronchioles in my lungs, I mustered up the strength to open the front door once more. My muscles tense, bracing for whatever horror was yet to come. In my robin-blue doorway, framed by decaying pots and withered stems, stood a friend— former friend, really.
Her soft lemon hair sparkled in the morning sun. Freckles dusted her nose and chin, constellations of youth. Her blue-bird eyes sang melodies of hope that I had long forgotten. Her plush lips parted to reveal freshly clean teeth. She smelled faintly of Earl Grey tea.
I could see the moment her thoughts began to assemble. A small twitch of her cheek, and a frown formed before she could stop it. Watching her perfect mouth corners dip, guilt lurched through me—sudden and scathing—as if I were the witch she had just discovered. Her once-clear eyes became cloudy and confused as if her heart had been bruised.
“I was worried about where you have been. You never pick up the telephone, never call to let anyone know. You missed gardening with the club and haven’t spoken to anyone!”
With a sharp inhale, I prepared to respond with words. But as my mouth began to form shapes, nothing came, only air. The best I could offer was a slow blink, a small, useless attempt to show that I wished I could speak.
“I traveled all this way to confront you face-to-face. But standing here, I can see that was a big mistake! Your hair is tangled, and your eyes look dead. Your skin is pale and seems filled with dread. And that smell… What is that smell?! I think that is the worst yet!”
Slowly, I heard hooves dragging against the hardwood floors. The sound crept closer, heavy and unrelenting. My former friend would finally see the creature I abhor. Would someone at last notice the monster I could not flee? Would she save me from grunts of disdain, free me of his vicious aims? Or would we both be rendered unsafe— his sickly claws slashing her lovely face? I imagined them slicing through her soft perfection, threatened by the angelic shape of her.
Alas, his furred and scaled body loomed behind me. Nearly six feet tall, his hunched shoulders carried a terrible strength. His tail clambered on the ground, coupled with an inauspicious frown. His eyes narrowed, and from the pits of his extended belly, he released a low, bellowing growl. Spit flicked my skin, a physical reminder that I was his.
Then, the slam of the front door. The sound crackled through the house, rattling the wood to its bones.
But it wasn’t my creature who’d done it, who shut the door on me. To my surprise, it was her—my former friend. Her dainty wrist still gripped the knob, petite and spotless, refusing me the courtesy of her confusion. The moment ended without spectacle— an anticlimax so sharp it stung. My hopes of her saving me were splintered, small and frayed, like the wood around its frame. I stood there, shaking, breath snagging in my throat.
In the foyer, it was just me and my creature once again. Our beady eyes met, our breaths syncing, telekinetically rehashing our unexpected visitor. For a moment, even my creature seemed to wait. Then, he raised a clawed fist, his scaly arm coiling back for a swing. My heart raced; I felt the blood drain out of my face.
But looking into his carnivorous gaze, I caught a glimmer of something else: kindness. A paradox of instincts. A moment of mercy, sensing how my friend’s betrayal left me in a hopeless place.
Cautiously, he lowered his arm. I must have been punished enough today. Instead, his elongated nails brushed my emaciated waist and drew me close. His skin was coarse and warm, exhaling heat like an old machine. It was strange— my tormentor’s affection. Maybe things weren’t always as they seem. Maybe my creature didn’t mean to be mean.
Living with him began to feel like a gamble, gilded cruelty dressed in charm. The table was set in my mind: dice rolling, cards flipping, and a dealer’s smirk daring me to stay. Each day, I wondered what hand would be dealt, cards revealing anguish, torment, or shame? Or would I get lucky, a royal flush of fleeting affection or grunt that almost sounded like love. My basal ganglia⁴ indulged, pumping dopamine through me with each risk, not caring that the game was cruel. Make me a high roller, I pleaded, I’ll throw my life savings away, play your games all day, all night, for a chance at the winning hand.
I went from hating his ghastly scent, his crooked smile, his meddling essence— to yearning for it. I knew he was evil; I knew he was wrong. This creature did not belong in my house, yet all I wanted was for him to stay. His grunts left pink welts on my back; his snarls carved into my soft, vanilla skin. Hurt me, I whispered, throw boiling tea all over me. I’d watch the blisters rise, raw— like I was made for it, as if that was all I had been made for.
Over time, he didn’t have to haunt me anymore; I learned to do it myself. His cruelty seeped into my bloodstream, pulsing malice through my heart. My once pretty face decayed into a menacing waste. I scratched at old scars until they bloomed anew, tracing his signature underneath my skin, proof that he still lived somewhere in me. But now it was me, clamoring through rooms, scowling as I disapproved. I hissed at the world as he did, loathing the ruffles, the daffodils, the pearls; fragile relics of a girl I used to be.
Days bled into each other. Our rituals became indistinguishable— his habits, my hands; his pain, my body. Sometimes I’d catch him watching me, beady eyes gleaming with pride, as maybe he won. And maybe he had.
Until one dreary morning, when it was my turn to brew our Earl Grey tea. It wasn’t his gnarled claws around the kettle’s handle this time. Instead, it was my own guant fingers clutching the metal. I boiled the water, listening to the hum of bubbles bursting, and the floral bergamot felt wrong, too bright and clean. I found myself gagging at it, as if the steam itself had spoiled.
He teetered on his stool, appearing smaller than before. I watched his gluttonous stomach rise and fall, a greedy swell of air he didn’t deserve. His body bulged, lazy and arrogant, spreading like mold.
I opened the cabinet and took out two cups: one, the mended ruin from before. Its cracks, once jagged and sharp, now sealed with sludge-gray glue. I poured the Earl Grey elixir into it, not a drop escaping its scars. The other cup, still porcelain and unbroken, I left empty.
Setting the two cups on the table, I met his eyes. For once, I did not cower; the monster in me was wide awake. Looking down at the rippling liquid, I saw my reflection once again. Creature, I had no need. I was my own vile atrocity.
“For why are you in my home, sipping on my Earl Grey tea?
My voice had strength now, the growl of a fighting dog, starved and crazed.
“Who do you think you are, sitting here like you belong, nameless and uninvited?”
I was no longer just a dog. I was a pack of wolves tearing through the doe-eyed girl I used to be, saliva bubbling at my lips.
“Do not sit there and gawk. You don’t think I see you? You don’t think I know the stench you carry is mine. You are not my guest. You are a reflection of my own crippled mind!”
His lips peeled back, eyes shrinking, shoulders hunkering in.
“A name I will give you— for your rot, your devotion, your putrid loyalty. For every night you gnawed on my bones and called it company. That is what you want, isn’t it? A name of your own, even if it means devouring mine. But I will not let you.”
His whole body began to tremble, tension rippling up, convulsions of emotions erupting. His form flickered; skin to shadow, shadow to smoke, as if the name itself unmade him.
I understood then that it was the silence that kept him alive. Without a name, he was both everything and nothing, free to haunt the space between my thoughts. To name him was to sever him from me, to free me from his all-encompassing void.
“With whom do I share my tea? With Tezca⁵, the creature, the mirror, the reflection that breathes.”
Shards of light erupted from my dining room table— ferocious flashes, silver slivers, twilight bursting open. Energy pulsed. Air turned inside out. Crackling noises released as arpeggios. Colors melted. Shadows unspooled. Sounds bled, and then— silence.
And alas, at my table sat a creature no more.
I raised the mended cup to my lips. Only one cup of Earl Grey was poured, for my life was never his.