(Author) and the Fish

In 2020, at the height of isolation, my days were spent in my bedroom, on my laptop, alone. In the morning and through the afternoon, I had school: a time when my teachers would greet us as best they could, staring at their computer cameras. The more “classes” we had, the more we could see the despair, hopelessness in their eyes, but no student was brave enough to make their face or voice known—what was the point?—our meetings remained silent as ever. 

Between meetings, I’d play games with classmates over call. We’d discuss the lecture, the homework, how we missed the outside, and doesn’t it seem like the teacher is giving up? I wonder how she’ll look tomorrow. During these chats we would sometimes deign to show our faces, but only briefly. No one dared say they were lonely. Then we’d have school again, after which I might’ve cried a little, then off to bed it was. The only real interaction I had with people was when my parents would crawl down from their rooms so we could eat dinner in separate parts of the house—living room, bedroom, kitchen. There was no need to distance ourselves from each other at the time, but after spending all day secluded with work, it seemed like we each needed some “alone time.” 

I guess the wear of isolation had begun to show in my face because one day my mother knocked on my door with “a gift!” I was reluctant to let her in. My clothes were strewn about, you couldn't see the floor, my bed was beginning to look like I lived in it (I did). I didn’t want anyone to see, let alone my mother. But curiosity got the better of me and I was so, so lonely. I opened the door. 

In she came, hurrying to set down something heavy, giving me a bright smile as she wove around my clutter to place what she thought might cheer me up: a glittering blue and red betta fish. It darted about its tank happily and gazed at the distorted image of my room from behind its acrylic walls. The fish may have looked my way once or twice, but determined the rest of the room was more exciting.

“I thought you might like a little company,” my mother beamed, her weariness hiding in the lines of her grin. The beautiful fish and I eyed one another with equal disinterest, but I thanked my mother anyway. 

“It’s beautiful,” was all I could say. I cannot remember if I loved it then. I can’t remember its name. 

The routine of my days did not change—sleep, learn, cry, repeat—save for when I’d force myself from my computer to feed the fish. Having nowhere else to keep it, the fish sat across from my bed on the other side of the room, on the floor, always watching. Sometimes I would sit on the floor and watch it back. My mother said I could teach it tricks, but the fish just stared at me with the same blank look in its eyes. 

Then one day, the fish stopped moving. It wasn’t belly-side-up, but its scales had assumed a pallor and it was hovering in the middle of the tank. I poked it gently with my finger and it shied away. Assuming it was bored, I continued to feed it, but didn’t pay it much attention; everyone felt lethargic. If the fish was bored, it would have to deal with it. But then it just stayed there, in the middle of the tank, unmoving, and did so for nearly a week. Food and algae had begun to accumulate at the water’s surface, and I wondered if the fish had been eating at all. The betta looked paler than ever. I deduced the fish was dead. 

Another week passed and the fish tank was still in my room. I couldn’t bring myself to deal with it, so I just forgot about it. Eventually I was able to avoid that side of the room without so much as a thought. 

Then one morning the sun was up; my room was flooded with light. The sun shone warmly on my face, and I could hear a stirring outside my door, the sounds of life. It was time to leave the chamber; it was time to feel again. In the kitchen, my mother was making herself breakfast and offered me an egg. 

“My fish is dead,” I admitted, leaning casually in the doorway. I felt sick.

“Well, bring it out here,” she said, as if she were merely telling me to grab my dishes or pick up my laundry. I heaved the tank from bedroom to kitchen, the inside was all green. My mother reached in with a curious hand, scooped out the lusterless corpse, and set it on a paper towel next to the sink. But as she began to dump the cloudy water from the tank, there was a flicker from the sideboard. The fish was alive, and it had been alive. All that time it had been motionless, underfed, dying for weeks; but it was still alive. 

My mother sighed and looked at me with a laden expression; we silently agreed. She wrapped the gasping fish in the paper towel and brought the heel of her palm down hard. 

THUMP

Now the fish was dead.

Laura Wong

Laura is a Visual Arts major at Roger Williams University with a penchant for storytelling. Though she prefers her literary works be performed orally, her written works have been featured in many prestigious publications such as Laura’s Texts to her Mother, Laura’s Google Docs, and Laura’s illegible 2 AM scrawls.