The Goldfish and the Killer Toddler

The Goldfish and the Killer Toddler


-December 30th, 2017-

I thought...well it doesn't matter what I thought, because I was incorrect. As always, I am forgotten.

What I don’t understand is why it still surprises me, my incorrectness. It’s like I simply can’t learn, like a goldfish. I am a goldfish.

I swim around with a neutral expression, blissfully unaware of my history and patterns. It’s a nice swim, water’s great, but is it?

You see, can’t remember.

I can’t tell you if I have blue or brown eyes. Can’t recall if my hands are mocha slave or vanilla tyranny. I have no fucking clue.

The only thing I can recall is pain. Let’s search for another metaphor…

Ah!

Okay, so I’m a goldfish that got shot in the chest...wait, no...I wouldn’t have a chest eh?

So...I’m a goldfish who...okay, fuck logic.

I was in my tank, just chillin when this mad toddler came crawling over like it was on a mission and the little shit lifted its’ arm to reveal a small handgun clenched tightly in its’ cute baby fist and the tiny fucker shot me! Shot me!

Anyways I’ve been shot right? No one dressed the wound, no one filed a police report but in the time it takes me to swim around the tank I feel that bullet.

It hurts, aches, it is so unsettling that I can’t breathe and nothing feels right, it is all I think about and then…

Nothing.

Nothing except the pain and the almost remembering.

There’s no cure I believe. The only option being to slit my fins and make the water red. But no one would understand. Anyone to walk by my tank would exclaim with worry and then proceed to make MY death about them.

“Oh, I should’ve seen the signs!”

“Why didn’t she talk to me?”

“How could she do this to us?”

“I’m so sad and confused.”

Thank you, you selfish pricks. My death, MINE, is about me.

It is my life, it is my choice. Seriously? You ask yourselves these questions now? Why not ask them when I tell you I’m depressed? Why not ask them when I say I’m suicidal?

Help me when I’m dying, not when I’m dead.

Because my death...my death will be when I can’t take it anymore. When I’ve tried it all and failed. When the thought of waking up again becomes unbearable. When I’ve told everyone and the silence is deafening.

If I go, be happy that my pain is gone and instead of moping around about it, wake the fuck up and help the next person who says things like.

“I just don’t care anymore.”

“I want to be excited about life again.”

“I’m just so tired.”


And my favorite.

“I can’t stop feeling like...this.”

Help then. Get off your phone then. Make a goddamn effort then.

Because the post-mortem bullshit doesn’t count.

So now I’m sure I’ve ruined goldfish for everyone. I’ve defiled a classic first pet and childhood snack. But hey, at least this story wasn’t about dogs.

Honestly, if people cared about other people half as much as they care about dogs the world would have less people downing pills and plummeting off buildings.

But hey, I'm just a goldfish so what would I know?