Where The Fish Go To Die

“Where do Fish go to die?” I’ve asked my mother too many times.

I ask her a lot of things too many times. 

Like, “Will you check under my bed?” Or, “What if there’s something in my closet?” 

Sometimes, it’s hard to tell how many is too many. I can tell this time is too many because she doesn’t answer me. Preferring instead to stare down into her tea, tapping her fingers against the cup. 

It’s a constant tap-tap-tap. 

I don’t think she knows where they go to die. Sometimes, she’ll attempt an answer and tell me, “They go to a special Fish place, or something.” And she’ll cross her arms and look down on me and not look at me. 

Tap-tap-tap. 

My brother leans down, smiling, tilting his head so mom doesn’t hear him (she wouldn’t have looked up from her tea anyways) and whispers, “She means the freezer. Ever wondered where Fish sticks come from?” It’s my turn to not answer him. He never knows the answer to my question and I’ve never wondered where Fish sticks come from either.

I know they come from the store. 

I ask her again, “Where do Fish go to die?” 

She leaves the room, tap-tap-tap, taking some of the air and leaving an absence. I feel like I’m drowning with something, but I’m next to nothing, alone. 

I want an answer.  

My brother tells me they’re dropped in the toilet and get flushed down the pipes. Swept away cleanly and efficiently; unsanitary. They don’t leave behind any traces that way, not even the water is the same. 

No toys or food bowls, no litter boxes or leashes to clean up. No upturned soil and handmade gravestones. Just an empty water bowl and extra space on your dresser.

Sometimes, they leave behind even less than that. Sometimes, they only leave the bowl behind because that extra space dies with them. 

I’m not stupid, I know where they go after they’ve died.

“But where do they go to die?” I try again, asking the place where my mother was. Asking the place where the air feels thinner, where ‘next to’ feels like nothing. Where there’s nothing there. 

My brother shakes his head, like I should know better, like he knows better. He leaves the room. 

I get up and walk the perimeter to think. 

Cats will sometimes hide in dark, scary, places. Like a basement or under a bed. Cat’s go to die alone. Cats go and die next to monsters lurking in shadows, under beds, in corners. In the darkest dark parts of your closet you can only see through the corner of your eye. 

People, on the other hand, can die in all sorts of ways, some die alone, and stay dead alone. Others die surrounded, but still alone. Some people even die at the same time, together, but not next to each other. 

So where do Fish go to die? They’re in a bowl. There is no basement in a bowl, or others in a bowl. There is only alone in a bowl. Do they retreat into themselves, sinking into their minds as their body floats above the water? 

I wish my Fish was still my Fish so I could ask him, he’d know where Fish go to die. Like I know where people go to die. 

My brother interrupts my pacing by walking back into the kitchen. Stepping over the weird tile that tilts slightly up and cuts your foot at night when you forget it’s there. Pushing past me to reach for the freezer door. I stare at him. Neither of us expect the other to fill the silence. 

Tap-tap-tap.

“All your talk about Fish made me hungry.” He said. An empty sentence that wouldn’t put a drop in a shot glass. 

“Don’t you wonder?” 

“Where Fish go to die?” I’m curious.

He peels cardboard back and takes out a plastic bag half full of Fish sticks. 

“No.”

“I don’t wonder about that.” He sounds bored. 

“Oh.” 

I watch him dump the Fish sticks on a paper towel, using up the rest of the bag. He wraps them up tight before setting the microwave to 1:00 and tossing it through the open door. Having to jump up a little to get them in. 

He presses start. 

Tap-tap-tap.

He turns back to face me, still staring at him, “I already told you, they become Fish sticks.” 

And he smiles, such an innocent smile I almost believe him. That Fish go to die and then they become Fish sticks. That the reason he doesn’t wonder is because he already knows. 

And he smiles, like he rehearsed it, like he’s done this hundreds of times. His lips curve slightly up, like a school photographer told him to say cheese and he wants to look his best. His lips parting, just enough that you wouldn’t even be able to tell he’s missing his two front teeth. His eyes crinkle up, just enough to make it all look real. His head at a slight tilt, like he’s observing me through a window and wants me to pay attention to him. Or, maybe, he thinks I’m observing him and he wants to pay attention to me. 

He smiles, the microwave counts, the air thins, and I should believe him. Tap-tap-tap. 

“Do all Fish become Fish sticks?”

“Yup. All Fish die and turn into Fish sticks.” 

He pulls open the microwave door without looking when it hits 0:01. 

“What about the Fish in my closet then?”

“Will he become a Fish stick?” I wasn’t going to tell him about the Fish in my closet, but now I’m worried the Fish in my closet is going to die and become a Fish stick.

“I don’t want a Fish stick in my closet, what if it attracts spiders?”

Confusion passes through his face as he continues smiling, like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Like he thinks he’s missed something.

“The Fish. In my closet.” I restate, in case he forgot what we were talking about for a second. I wouldn’t put it past him. 

“Why would you put your dead Fish in your closet?” He sounds slightly disgusted. 

Now I’m confused and slightly disgusted. 

“Why would I put my Fish in my closet?”

He stops smiling, he looks slightly disgusted. 

“Then why is there a Fish in your closet?”

“I dunno.”

“I thought maybe they went to die in closets.” I say, looking down at my feet. I don’t want him thinking I put my dead Fish in my closet. 

He looks at me like I’ve grown a Fish head. 

I don’t want him thinking I put my dead Fish in my closet.

I just thought he might know where the closet-Fish would die since he knew about the Fish Sticks. Or why there was a closet-Fish in my closet in the first place. He just showed up one day. We never bought him from the Fish store or won him from the carnival. I didn’t know Fish could show up unannounced like that. 

He pulls his lukewarm, still frozen-in-the-middle Fish sticks out of the microwave, having to jump even further to grab a corner of the paper towel. 

“Show me.” He says, balling the food up and tossing it in the trash, not bothering to eat any of it. 

I turn and start walking out of the kitchen, stepping over the weird tile, tap-tap-tap, not saying a word. I want to show him I didn’t put my dead Fish in my closet. That’s disgusting.We flushed my dead Fish down the toilet. 

The walk from the kitchen to my bedroom is silent until we reach my closed door. We stare at it, willing the other to open it first. Now that we both know about it I feel like it’s something to be scared of. Like knowing there’s a spider in your house, now you know, so now you should be a little scared. Especially if you’re not currently aware of where it is; even if it’s tiny.  

“How big is it?”

“What?”

“The Fish,” my brother asks, rubbing the back of his neck. He turns his head every few seconds to look behind himself, as if he’s expecting someone. As if he’s being observed. I’m observing him, but I’m in front of him.  

“As small as he needs to be to fit in my closet I guess.” 

He continues rubbing his neck, staring at the corner of the living room now, where the lamp used to be. It only left a lamp-shaped hole behind.

I look around. I’m becoming aware of the too-dark, dark that sits in our house. The only light coming from the kitchen and underneath our mom’s closed bedroom door. I can barely make out his face, I’m sure I look the same. 

“Hurry n’open your door.” A slight panic engulfing his words, his eyes never leaving the dark. A slight tap-tap-tap as I push the door open and hear the broken latch scratch against the door frame. My brother puts his hand on my shoulder and gives a gentle push, sometimes, the dark is too dark. 

This dark is too-dark. 

I know when the dark is too-dark because it makes you feel like you can see things in the dark. It makes you think that the dark is inhabited. 

I can’t find the light switch. 

Tap-tap-tap.

His hand still on my shoulder, pushing me, inch by inch, further towards the too-dark. I think I see something.

My hand slides up and down the wall, begging to find nothing but the switch. 

“Hit the switch, what are you doing?” The panic in his voice inching further into the dark, hitting the closet doors. Tap-tap-tap. 

I can’t find the light switch or my voice. 

Tap-tap-tap.

He gives a final push and removes his hand from my shoulder. Sometimes, you're together and alone. 

I find the switch at the same time my voice finds me, a scream forcing its way down my throat and into my chest, squeezing my heart against my lungs at the same time my brother’s hand finds mine at the panel. At the same time we brushed our hands and feared we found the worst.  

He stumbles, hitting the doorframe, falling backwards, tap-tap-tap, the door shudders in its frame. The light flickers once, twice, three times before emitting a sterile white glow. The dark inhabits the living room. 

He scrambles up to his feet, reaching out for my shoulders. Sometimes, you’re alone and together. 

We look at my closet. 

It looks back at us, the two brass knobs forming eyes. I wonder if it sees us or if it sees what inhabits the dark.

“Open it.” He urges, looking down at me, at my floor, looking anywhere but the closet. As if that would save him, as if pulling the blanket over your head at night will prevent the monsters from taking you. As if having your feet tucked in will prevent them from dragging you down and under. As if nightmares aren’t real sometimes. 

I don’t want to open it. I know it’s there and now my brother knows it’s there. Does it know we’re here?

“C’mon, do it.” 

I do it.