The Goldfish

I’ve sat in this chair for four hours, stood next to it for two, and been in this room for three days, outside of the occasional trips to the pantry, bathroom, and back. I have turned every ottoman, every stool, sofa, spine of a book, to face the fishbowl in the middle of the room. It, the bowl, contains a single goldfish swimming ceaselessly into glass walls just to turn back around again. A repeated dance of squares and circles in which it ends up right back where it started. I attempt to mimic the fish, and in turn, it mimics me. We swim left, walk right, cross the rug, the coral, and hit the glass.

We turn around again.

I pull the Persian off the floor, roll it to a funnel and tread over to the blue-papered walls. Setting the rug down, I carefully slide the worn sofa to the corner, yet I am unable to prevent scratches on the floorboards, nor am I able to prevent the tear that rips along the side, bleeding out yellow foam. The chair follows suit, as does the table. I push and prod each inch of the room clean until all that remains in the center of the room is the fishbowl.

Sitting down, I cross my legs and slip closer, until my shins are pressed up against the little world. It glares at me—the unnamed creature—and I swear it freezes to look at the bruises on my face and what I have done to this room, this place. The water sloshes as the fish hurriedly paces inside of its cell, picking up speed as the blood and saliva fill my mouth, staining my white teeth an inky crimson color. We suck on our cheeks simultaneously, flapping gills and watery grins lost in the blue. I flounder as I pull a pistol out of my jean pocket, dipping it into the fishbowl repeatedly, stroking the fins. It swims away into the glass, but I sit still.

I hear the fish cry, and an owl outside, cooing an executioner’s call to the moon. As I drown in the moonlight, I smile, cocking back the pistol and staring into the orange flame of the creature. The cracking of glass follows the shot of the gun.

The fish, and I too, fall to the floor.

Elizabeth Dassow is double majoring in Law, History, and Culture and Art History at the University of Southern California. She was born and raised in Indianapolis, Indiana, where she taught creative writing and was the editor of her high school’s national award-winning magazine, The Artisan. She writes poetry, short stories, and flash fiction.