Immortal Goldfish

You know what I'm in the mood for? Some totally unproductive writing, first person, from a character that doesn't even show up in the series until Vol 3. In fact, let's write about her before she was even a wereanimal. Yeah, that's a good allocation of my time. I give you Claire.

Despite every regard in which man holds himself above other species, there is really only way that he is truly unique: While other animals have the instinct of survival alone, man has a keen understanding of his own mortality. Oh, we fear death with the same primitive cringing terror of a fieldmouse at an owl's mercy, but with the added torture of contemplating what is known - and unknown - about dying.

For the entirety of human history, we have sought a loophole, creating Gods and later, sciences in our tireless effort to attain eternal life. We looked to the immortals with envy for answers, first worshipping them, then vivisecting them. Perhaps we should have looked at our own species instead: in the eyes of a human child, the world is full of life.

When I was sixteen, I got a job at a local pet store. It gave me a sense of utility; I was now a contributing member of my family. By and large, the job itself was satisfying as well. I spent most of my time teaching children how to hold a hamster gently, or helping little old ladies carry heavy bags of kitty litter to their cars. We allowed local rescues to set up donation buckets by the register and gave discounts to an elderly man who fed the local strays. We didn't carry many live pets - it was a small mom-and-pop shop - but we took pride in the care of the few animals we sold.

Most of them. The one exception was a large holding tank towards the back of the store, which was filled with "feeder" goldfish. These tiny little fish would come in shipments by the hundreds, and they sold for only ten cents each. Their inevitable fate was to be devoured by predatory pets while the owners eagerly watched, howling with amusement. Those not sold rarely survived a week, their rail-thin bodies eroded by disease. They would stick to the filter, gasping pathetically, unable to move as the other fish picked at their scales and eyes.

I hated this aquarium full of goldfish. Twice daily, every day, I had to remove all of the dead and dying fish. The water was cold and foul-smelling, and to reach the ones on the very bottom, I had to plunge armpit-deep. The goldfish would panic and splash as my net swept through, leaving my clothing damp and stinking. I wound up despising the fish, and if I ever took a moment to comtemplate that hatred, I would be wracked with guilt. How, after all, could I justify hating them for their wretched existence?

One day, while I was scooping out the morning's dead, a young child - barely four years old, toddled over. Children adored these goldfish, blithely oblivious to their suffering. She stared wide-eyed at the sea of shimmering gold scales, smiling until she saw me scooping great net-fulls of fish carcasses from the intake and into a plastic baggie. Her tiny forehead wrinkled as she tried to make sense of the scene. Finally, she tugged at my pants leg and said,

"Why are those fish so sleepy?"

I opened my mouth, began to reply that they were dead, and simply... couldn't. This little girl was staring up at me with naive eyes, ignorant eyes, eyes that couldn't see death. Something in me simply couldn't shatter her illusion that the fish were merely tired. I didn't want to be the one to awaken her from childhood dreams of immortality.

"They... they've been swimming all day," I finally stammered, looking away and continuing my work hoping in vain that she would lose interest and walk away.

"Is that their sleeping bag?" She asked, pointing to the reeking ziplock in my hand packed tightly with finned fatality.

"Yes," I replied succinctly, whisking an eyeless, open-mouthed body from the bottom of the tank.

"But... it's see-through," she frowned. "Don't they need the lights out to sleep?"

I stopped, taking a deep breath.

"Well, when I'm done getting all of the sleepy fish, I'm going to bring them in the back to a nice, dark, quiet place so they can get some rest."

Sated, the child smiled.

"Oh! Ok." She leaned forward, eyeing the bag, and for a moment I thought my ruse would crumble. Instead, however, she enthusiastically waved at the heaped, lifeless goldfish. "Goodnight, fishies! Have a good nap," and took off down the next isle calling for her dad.

I looked down at the bag, the mass of slimy blood-spotted scales and shredded fins glistening within. Suddenly, I felt as though I couldn't breathe, and rushed away from the aquarium, clutching the sack in a white knuckled grip. I cowered behind the employees-only door, chest heaving as I placed the bag in the trash.

The immortal goldfish vanished among the discarded paper towels, soda bottles, and bird seed husks. A nap. Yeah. Six months from now, when my prognosis becomes my reality, me and the goldfish are going to have a good rest.