The Killer

In which love is murdered

                I know a lot more than they give me credit for.  If you want to know the truth, that guy out there is a killer.  One hundred per cent, no doubt about it, he is a monster and he must be stopped before he murders again.

                I was fine.  Once upon a time, I was fine swimming in my tank by my lonesome.  Every day the big guy would drop by, ask “How ya doing in there?” drop in some flakes for me to eat.  I was happy.  He’d leave for the day and I’d spend my time however I pleased, mostly composing poetry in my head, swimming back and forth, reciting it to myself.  “Oh how brightly her scales do shine / Like the bubbles in this tank of mine.”  But I wasn’t writing for anybody in particular until one day he brought her home.

                I don’t know what inspired him to do it.  I always thought I’d been enough company for him.  Sure, he did most of the talking, but I was a good listener.  I did my best.  But one day without warning he just dropped her right in the tank.  Sherman, meet your new roommate, Goldie.  Play nice.

                Now how was I supposed to feel?  I thought we had an arrangement.  I was the fish around here.  Every inch of that glass, every pebble of gravel at the bottom, every scrap of food that came my way was mine and mine alone.  I had the place to myself and I was happy.  But then in comes Goldie.  Suddenly, I’m walking on eggshells " so to speak.

                “Things were better at the pet store,” she’d say, “My roommates were so awesome, I miss them so much.  We used to have a better version of that filter.  Our gravel was green, not blue.  Our seaweed was more authentic-looking.”  So pretentious.  And that name!  Goldie.  Who picked that?  If you had a brainstorming session to name your goldfish, Goldie would be the first thing you threw out if you had half a functioning brain cell.  But she was attached to it, wouldn’t stand to be called anything else, so Goldie it was.

                “Goldie you merciless dominatrix / I hope one day you are turned into fishsticks.”

                Suddenly, if I wanted to take a lap around the ceramic castle, I had to make sure she wasn’t having “meditation time” there.  I couldn’t hang out by the east wall during sunsets, either, because it “obstructed her view.”  And she never shut up about how I was “leaving my crap all over the place.”  Hey, I’m a fish, where am I supposed to crap?

                No, Goldie wasn’t easy to live with by any stretch of the imagination.  But one thing couldn’t be denied: she was gorgeous.

                I hadn’t seen another fish in months when she first arrived in my tank, but I maintain that she was the most radiant piscine I had ever laid my eyes on.  She was a hassle, but she was worth putting up with if it meant getting a glimpse of the contours of her fin.

                Imagine my surprise when I learned the feeling was mutual.

                “Sherman, I know it hasn’t been easy adjusting to my presence here,” she told me one morning after our feeding, “You don’t get a lot of choices in this life, when it comes to who you get stuck in a tank with, but I can’t see myself being happier with anyone.  I love you, Sherman.”

                For a while, everything was great.  Our routines synched up, we began to talk more and more about moving our relationship to the next level.  If we had met in another time and place, we would have thought about starting a family of our own, but we both knew it just wouldn’t work.  We were just happy to have each other.

                I was so head-over-fin for Goldie, I hardly took notice of the big guy’s life anymore, and he treated us with the same regard.  Every so often he’d throw us a good morning, but the soul-baring monologues had dwindled.  This coincided with the arrival of the big guy’s own special new female friend.  Suddenly, he had his own new set of ears to share all his hopes and insecurities, and unlike us, she could speak the same language, take him by the hand, and lead him to that other room to do whatever it is that happens in there.

                But hey, the food kept dropping into the tank every morning, and I had my woman by my side.  Everything was right with the world.

                Then I noticed the hair on the big guy’s face starting to grow.  The girl stopped coming around.  He began to sleep late, feeding us too little if any at all.

                I wanted to be a hero.  I wanted to leave the food for Goldie and starve myself.  But she was so weak she couldn’t even swim to the top of the tank anymore.  The food wasn’t doing anybody and good if I didn’t eat it, and she pled with me, “Sherman, please, don’t do this to yourself.  There’s no sense wasting both our lives.  Stay strong, for me.”

I’ll never forgive myself for listening to her.  I’ll never forget the sacrifice she made me let her make.  But one morning, there she was at the top of the tank, and I thought for a second she had regained her strength, but no.  That was the end.  She had gone to the top of the tank, never to return.

I try not to blame myself for what happened.  I try to think about how at least one of us survived.  But that son of a b***h has taken something from me that can never be replaced.  I was happy on my own before she came along, but he was the one who made me love her, and he was the one who made me kill her.

Reviews

[Dutch Jr.]

Quite creative, and reading your work, I notice that your tone is very whimsical and witty. Great, entertaining reads you're posting on here, keep it up.