Take and Eat by Julia Breitkreutz

My little brother pinches off a big piece from the Body of Christ, plops it right on his tongue, and clamps his mouth shut. Mr. Dean chuckles and shakes his head before offering the Body of Christ to the family beside us. I grab my brother’s forearm and twist. He opens his mouth in pain and a wet, spit-covered piece of bread falls to the carpeted floor. Whimpering threatens to turn to wailing.

“Quit that,”I whisper, not letting go of his arm. “You are supposed to wait for everyone to have a piece.”He quiets down. Tears roll down his red cheeks, and so I tear the chunk of bread I’m holding in half—pass him the larger piece. Sniffles. Boogers leak out of his nose. He drags his sweater across his face. Our mother squints at us, mouths something from her seat in the choir. I shrug, mouth back, I can’t hear you.

“This is the Body of Christ, broken for you. Take and eat, in remembrance of Him.” Pastor Jeff holds a loaf above the altar, glances left, right, and center before breaking the bread in half between knobby hands. It doesn’t break evenly. The half in his left hand is much larger. This bothers me.

“Now you eat,” I whisper. “You have to wait until Pastor Jeff tells us to, okay?”

“Why did he call it a body?” my brother asks, frowning. “Yuck.”

“It’s metaphorical,” I explain, but my brother stares blankly up at me. “It’s just something they say.” I chew the bread, imagining that it’s raw meat, that I can taste the sinewy muscles of Our Savior—feel the blood hit the back of my throat. My brother just stares at me.

“It’s not real. Just pretend. You can see that it’s bread, silly.”

“Just pretend?”

“Yes,” I whisper, swallowing the ball of dough. “Just pretend.”

Next, the Blood of Christ. This time, my brother knows what to do. His little fingers wrap delicately around the tiny, plastic cup of grape juice. We are all giants—ogres—in these wooden pews, holding tiny cups with fat, greedy fingers. Pastor Jeff holds the only normal-sized cup. He instructs us to drink. When we stand up to sing, my left sandal lands on the wet chunk of bread. There is no squishing sound, no blood pooling around my shoe. Why would there be?

“Go now in peace, and glorify the Lord.” Spit flies from Pastor Jeff’s mouth—lands on the space that holds the broken body. I can’t stand to look at him, so I look at the ground instead. I nudge the mushed-up bit of bread with the tip of my shoe. How can I go in peace from there when that flattened bit of Christ is staring up at me?

The organ groans to life, the old and the young rise from the wooden pews, and I swear that the floor is shaking beneath our weight. We are dismissed. I tell my brother to go find Mom. He whines, so I give him the look. He whines some more, but eventually turns—wanders towards the choir. Pews empty around me. Bodies line up to shake hands with Pastor Jeff. When I am sure that no one is looking, I bend down, snatch up that wet chunk of bread and shove it in my dress pocket.

I won’t remember that piece of the Body of Christ until years later, when I am sorting through my closet, flinging old dresses and skirts into a heavy-duty trash bag. My rejection of all things flowy and floral. I hear my mother in the hallway, talking on the phone with someone from the church—asking what to do about me.

Lilac dress with deep pockets and puffy sleeves. I start to ball it up when I feel something hard and small in the pocket. I take it out. Bits of purple fabric cling to the white mass. At first, I mistook it for old gum, but then I remember. Tiny hands. Hot skin. Saliva-doused bread. Just pretend.

My mother knocks at the door, asks me to unlock it, to let her in. I do not respond. I squint at the dried-up thing between my finger and thumb until it grows all fuzzy and unrefined. With my eyes closed, I open my mouth, toss in the hardened mass, swallow, and wait for something to happen.

But nothing happens. I open my eyes and look around. There are the song lyrics written in silver Sharpie on the mirror hanging behind my door, the dozens of thumbtack holes speckling the blank wall by my bed, the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars that had long since lost their glow scattered across the ceiling. Everything exactly as it was, as it’s always been. I pick up the wrinkled dress and throw it in the trash bag.

---

JULIA BREITKREUTZ — Julia is a writer, artist, and a middle school English teacher based in South Carolina. Her work has appeared in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Atticus Review, Five on the Fifth, and The Penn Review. When she is not writing or teaching, she can be found playing Gloria in the web series “Mush TV.” Check out her Substack @apalelight for more of her writing.

Art by ALYOSHA VAK — Alyosha is from NYC and currently attends college in Washington DC. In her free time, she likes the read, write, and draw.