I was five years old when I committed my first murder. The victim was my first pet, a goldfish that my mom had bought for me at the pet store at the mall. I named him myself—I never assumed it was anything but a him, but either way I was proud to pick out a good, masculine goldfish name. For me, a name like Flipper or Moby Dick or Hector or Dave just wouldn't cut it. I needed a name that made sense—a name like "Swimmy."
The pride swelling from inside my little-kid chest led me as I carried Swimmy out of the pet store myself, gripping tightly to the clear, plastic little water-balloon habitat for my new friend all the way through the department store and out into the parking lot, where I christened him in the back seat of our family’s maroon Plymouth Voyager minivan, the kind with wood panels on the sides.
We brought swimmy home and I put him in a glass bowl on my dresser, where he swam in slow circles and lived happily for a good two weeks before I went and killed him.
My accomplice was a squirrelly little blonde kid named Andy Giggax. Andy lived on the next street over, and I am certain that it was his idea to start poking my fish with wooden building blocks from my toy box. I don’t know why I agreed that it was a good idea—or even an interesting idea, but I participated in the hate crime all the same, jabbing at my own living possession and laughing hysterically as he circled his bowl in a frenzy.
When I found Swimmy floating in his bowl the next morning, my mom told me that he had gone to heaven and then flushed him down the toilet. I never told her about the violence I had committed, and I was shocked when I waited and waited and the questioning or even slightest suspicion never came. I decided that Andy Giggax was a bad influence on me and didn’t ask if he could come over and play anymore.
I held my guilt inside for months and maybe even years, until I found in my trick-or-treat bag one year a coupon for a free goldfish at that same pet shop. I decided that it was time to atone for what I had done. I picked the strongest, most virile fish I could find to be coined "Swimmy 2" and swore to protect him in whatever way I could. Despite my best efforts, Swimmy 2 lived an even shorter life than Swimmy 1, and, from what I could tell, died of natural causes.
It was then that a moment of grown-up understanding engulfed me, and I held out a hope that maybe--just maybe--my Swimmy hadn’t died at my own hand, that maybe he’d suffered from high blood pressure or emphysema or some other sort of hereditary disease before he ever came to live with me, and that whatever the case, he had—for a fish of his color and stature—lived a good, long life.
I, too, am a goldfish murderer. Murderess? Whatever. Her name was Mariah. I overfed her because I thought she killed her "sister" Kippi. Yeah. I was 8. Very good post, loved it!
ReplyDeleteSounds like the telltale signs of sociopathy.
ReplyDeleteI did not really understand the idea of pet death at this point in my childhood. I had lost several fish and would lose many more after (from natural deaths, suicides, overfeeding, etc), but at around age seven, I would experience a new kind of pet death - hermit crab death. After they died, my mother flushed them down the toilet and that was that. The death itself made sense to me.
ReplyDeleteYet, I was still superstitious as a young child. So naturally when my mother told me that I should watch out whenever I went to the bathroom, because a small claw may be inching its way out the toilet from whence it was flushed, I took this literally. For the longest time - just to make sure - I would check the toilet bowl. To this day, I don't think my mother knows how much that comment opened up possibilities about the afterlife of my hermit crabs. It would definitely give her a good laugh.
I like your story.
graham, your story really stirred up some nostalgic feelings in me. in college, my roommates and i wanted to get a fish for the house, who we creatively named "mr. swimmy". after i graduated and moved out of the house, i kept mr. swimmy, having always loved all land- and sealife. mr. swimmy was with me for years (that's like decades in fishy world!), until i got sick of cleaning his bowl and replaced his distilled, fish-friendly water with some from the tap. the next morning, he was gone and i was free.
ReplyDeletemonths passed and i was still losing sleep over my homicidal decision, so i went out and bought a new fish. goldie hawn and i became fast friends. she got the best home furnishings, the most expensive flakes, and, most importantly, life-promoting water. she was with me through 4 moves. when she died a year ago (of natural causes), i couldn't bring myself to flush her so i laid her slippery body to rest in the lake near our house.
i can only hope that my relationship with goldie hawn made up for the way i treated mr. swimmy, and that he's thankful for my pet-friendly change of character from heaven. or in my next life i'll come back as a goldfish and get poked to death by some little asshole kid and his evil friend.