Fish
You have to eat the fish.
The fish gives you everything.
The fish is my pet. I didn’t know what kind of fish it was when I bought it. It didn’t occur to me that I would have to ask what the fish was capable of doing. It was just a fish. My fish. I keep saying that word. Fish. That’s all it is. A fish. My fish.
I have to eat my fish. I tried getting another fish like it. I couldn’t find one. Everyone now knows you have to eat the fish so you can’t find them anywhere. It’s an answer trapped in the body of a fish. And I want to know. I don’t want to kill it. It’s still my pet. But I don’t love my fish. The same way my fish doesn’t love me. It’s a cold blooded animal and cold blooded animals are not capable of love. Everyone knows that.
Fish have no soul. I’m sure.
My fish has no soul. I know this.
You have to eat the fish.
I have to eat my fish.
And nobody has to know it was done.
Paz Spera lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She cowrote a book of short stories about the horrible things that can happen at any moment. She’s been a little paranoid ever since.
Cover Photo: Elizabeth (https://www.flickr.com/photos/37217398@N02/)