Kimberly Diaz

Word Count 727

In first grade, mean old Miss May slapped me on the hand for writing my 7's backwards and my words on the wrong lines. I couldn’t seem to do anything right in her room, but one magical day at the school carnival, I won a game of musical chairs. My prize was a goldfish extracted from a tank full of other doomed fish anxiously holding their collective breath.

Fun fact: Goldfish can live for up to 40 years! 

I was thrilled to receive the goldfish in a twist-tied baggie of water. I couldn't wait to get a fishbowl and spend hours gazing at it through the glass. I was still fantasizing about names for it when I crawled under the covers that night, but by morning the fish was dead. Sadly, there was no fond farewell, no ceremony. My father flushed it. Fish tank to septic tank in less than 24 hours.

 I wasn’t that crazy about fish, but I wanted something to love.

A decade later, I was playing Frisbee in the park with a friend, when a guy with long dark hair and darker eyes passed by walking his dog and smoking a joint. He said his name was Steve and offered us a hit. By the time the tiny roach was burning our fingers it was decided. Ellen walked the two blocks back to her house alone while I got new grass stains rolling around on the ground with Steve. We hung out talking for a long time. He was 18. I admitted I was only 15 and hadn't ever kissed anyone before. He said I was doing just fine.

The next night he picked me up in his van and drove me to a friend’s apartment. We walked in the front door and barely said hi to the guy. I sort of gave him a wave while Steve squeezed my other hand leading me down the hallway to the bedroom.  

 It was tiny, mostly bed. Except for the fish tank. Steve pushed me down on the bed. Gently, but it was clear there wasn’t going to be any kind of discussion, and I was okay with that, but nervous. We kissed a little and then he was on top of me. I couldn’t relax. I looked over his shoulder at the fish tank. The fish look horrified, suddenly darting around, their mouths in big O’s.

As I slipped into my jeans afterward, I was disappointed. It hurt so much.

My first husband kept a fish tank in our living room. I felt sorry for the fish. They could’ve had a whole ocean and were stuck in that algae-covered rectangular glass cage. One night he wanted to go buy cocaine in a notoriously dicey part of town. I was opposed to the idea. I hid the car keys so he chased me around the house, threatening to kill me. In desperation, I knocked the fish tank over to try to slow him down, put a barrier between us. He caught up with me outside and kicked me in the stomach. At least I wasn’t pregnant then. I was eight months along when I married him. They say your brain shrinks when you’re pregnant.

In the morning I forgot where I hid the keys. And felt really bad about the fish.

My last husband had a fish tank too. He cleaned it, at least. And he never threatened to kill me, but he dismissed me, ignored me. Did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. We had two children. I thought we must be in some kind of love.

Once, for his birthday, I bought him a bunch of new fish, all different kinds and colors. I thought he’d be thrilled. I didn’t know one was a “fighter fish.” Or that you were supposed to gradually add them in and get them used to the temperature change and whatever.         

Or that one of the fish was sick with some kind of fungus or something. It spread to all the other fish in the tank. And so one way or another they all died. All the fish.

The marriage had already been dead a long time. Eventually, I escaped. 

People tell me not to worry; there are plenty of other fish in the sea. And I’m not worried at all because I think that’s right where they belong.

Kimberly is a survivor of two marriages trying to stay sane in the crazy state of Florida. Her work has appeared in Another Chicago Magazine, Entropy, Montana Mouthful, Sunspot Literary, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and other lit mags, and anthologies. She’s currently working on an essay collection and a memoir.