I, Goldfish
By Tahsin Guner
Gilbert Webb had never given much credence to the theory of reincarnation, until the day he remembered that he used to be a goldfish. From that moment, his life changed forever.
He had always known that he was not cut out for life as a homosapien. Life oppressed him, city life in particular--its monoliths of concrete and steel, its grime-caked streets, littered with human detritus, the putrid air, the angry people, the tangled traffic. It was an inhuman place that strangled beauty and allowed the grotesque to flourish. Having lived there for every one of his twenty-eight years, Gil had often wondered why he felt like such a fish out of water. Now he knew.
It wasn't just the city, either. It was people. If there was one piece of advice people had thrust upon him more than any other, it was this: try to fit in. What an abhorrent idea. He had spent his whole life trying, and failing, to fit in--at home, at school, at university--never really knowing why he was so bad at it. He had been the black sheep of the family, the bully's victim at school, the nerd at university. Everywhere he went he had found himself on the outside, disconnected and alone. Now he knew why.
Salvation had come, as salvation often does, from the unlikeliest of sources: Florence Gulk. She occupied the desk next to him in the basement office of the Cheque Clearing House. The office was windowless and grey, the air suffused with the heady scents of body odour and perfume. It was shared by five other people, sitting at their desks like automatons, engaged in the same deadly dull work. There was nothing about that morning to suggest that a life-changing revelation was to come. If anything, it was more miserable than usual--for three nights, Gil had been kept up by a noise in the pipes, which had served to prolong a lingering winter cold. As though to deepen his torment, the fluorescent light above his desk was on the blink, and buzzing as though it contained a trapped insect.
Flo must have noticed his state of physical debilitation--his pale face, reddened eyes and sunken shoulders--because she leaned over and remarked, 'You look run down, love.'
Gil unglued his eyes from his computer terminal--and resisting the urge to smack her in the face--gave her a sour smile.
'You need a massage, is what you need.' Flo was doing a masseur's course at night school. ''Ere, let me give you one.'
Familiar words, often spoken, Gil imagined. Flo had something of a reputation in the office. She obviously fancied him, but Gil had decided long ago that office relationships didn't work--relationships of any kind, actually. Before she could raise her pert bottom from her chair, Gil explained that he already had a professional masseur, a young man by the name of Dwain who serviced him every second Sunday. The expression of barely concealed shock that crossed her face was extremely satisfying.
Thinking that that would be that, Gil resumed inputting data into his computer terminal. A few moments later, a waft of pungent eau de toilette signalled another intrusion into his personal space. Flo dumped a compact disc onto the pile of forms in front of him.
'Try that,' she enthused. 'It's like magic. You won't need that Wayne anymore'.
Gil looked at her blankly. 'It's not really my thing, Flo.'
'Don't be such a skeptic. Before I gave it a go, I used to have these really awful period pains--'
'Okay.' The last thing Gil wanted to hear were details of Flo's flow. 'I'll give it a try.'
That seemed to satisfy her, and they spent the rest of the day concentrating on their own work--stamping cheques, inputting data, stamping cheques, inputting data.
Halfway through the afternoon, Gil leaned back in his chair and allowed his head to sink back onto his shoulders. As he rubbed his face, he noticed a large black fly work its way out of a crack in the plastic casing protecting the fluorescent bulb. The buzzing stopped; a blessed cessation to one of the day's torments. The fly took off and spent the rest of the afternoon buzzing around his head.
If insane circumstances hadn't driven Gil to insane measures, he would have returned Flo's gift a week later, unused. Instead, he was plagued that night by every insomniac's worst nightmare--a persistent ringing in his ears. At around midnight, it seeded itself in his brain and grew there. In addition, the pipes began making their noise again--a low, peristaltic grumble--and the local drug dealers operating from a mini-cab office across the road were engaged in vociferous argument. Gil was praying for gun-fire--anything to shut them up.
Some time later, the angry voices transformed into subdued laughter--clearly, they had decided to sample their own merchandise--but the whine in his head and the gurgling in the pipes persisted. After an agony of tossing and turning and smothering his head with the pillow, Gil threw back the quilt and issued a frustrated growl. He jumped out of bed and snapped on the overhead light, its dull, yellow glow illuminating the disarray of his dingy, inner-city flat. The place was functional, at best, the main living area servicing as both lounge and bedroom. Second-hand furniture consumed most of the floor space; the rest was littered with odd items that had lost their way--clothes, unwashed dishes, a few books--Kafka, Poe, Melville; the residue of his academic career. The wall paper was snot-green.
Gil stood motionless, his eyes glazed, his body aching for sleep. The radio clock by his bed read two AM. If he went to sleep right now he would get five hours. Coming to a decision, he snapped out of his stupor and plodded over to a small, mahogany desk. Flo's compact disc was where he had thrown it in the drawer. The sleeve was pale turqoise--presumably deemed by its designers to be a particularly soothing colour--and on the back were a list of programmes: Meditative Relaxation; Give up Smoking; Increase Your Confidence; Develop Your Memory Power.
Gil put the CD into his stereo and turned down the volume to barely above a whisper. Flicking off the light, he slipped beneath the covers and waited for Flo's gift to work its magic.
Eight divided by four equals... eight divided by four, eight divided by four... equals... do it, do it right... Mrs Duncan will be angry, smack me with the ruler... Mrs Duncan... purple hair, tells us stories, why's she got purple hair? Eight divided by four, too hard, want to read a story, want to read... reading hard, too, but like it... Mummy pick me up later, go swimming, like swimming, like water... remember first time... small... arm bands on... small... baby... couldn't talk... can't talk... can't...
Gil woke up half an hour before his alarm clock buzzed. Instead of his usual sluggishness, he felt rested and relaxed--and for the first time in years, experienced no urge for a cigarette upon waking. The CD had played right through, although he remembered little of it--harp music enveloping the room; a soft woman's voice instructing him to relax each of his muscles in turn; phrases like 'descending into the depths of your unconscious mind,' drawn out in what was presumably a relaxing and hypnotic manner. It was the most boring thing he had ever listened to--worse even than the Jean Michel-Jarre tape he had received from his aunt one Christmas--and it was no wonder he had fallen asleep. But it had served its purpose.
He bounded out of bed, which was something he rarely did, and only felt his good mood begin to drain away when he took his place in the mass of business suits pushing their way into the packed tube station.
The memories came, bit by bit, over the next week. He slept easy, remembering fragments of his dreams when he awoke. He didn't know what to make of them at first. It was an absurdity that he should be having such thoughts--he was, after all, a grown adult--but the images were so vivid, the feelings that they inspired so potent, that he could not help dwelling on them, envisioning them in his waking life, and longing for sleep so that he could visit there again. He didn't immediately recognize the images as memories--perhaps because the notion was too fantastic for his logical mind to entertain--but they had the undeniable flavour of memory, of things tangibly experienced at one time. They did not feel like the whimsical creations of his slumbering mind. It was like looking at old childhood photographs and suddenly remembering the moment at which the picture was taken.
It was a small bowl that he saw in his dreams, but it was cosy and safe, like an aquatic cottage. A small boy sometimes pressed his face against the glass and made his mouth go open and close, presumably in imitation of his own face. Food would come pouring down like snowflakes. His every movement was fluid and graceful. There were no thoughts as such, but his life was all the better for it--no thoughts, no worries, no responsibilities, no nothing. Life just was.
On an impulse--and perhaps because he wanted to better understand his experiences--Gil bought himself a tank of goldfish. Every night, he adjusted the temperature of his bath and emptied the fish into the water with him. There was something sensual in the way their glistening bodies rippled across his flesh. Using a snorkel, he watched them glide through the water, remembering how, in his dreams, he possessed the same aquatic agility. If it was true that goldfish only had a memory span of seconds, he wondered whether these images came from the last moments of his former life--and if so, how did he die? Was that event so horrible that his mind was denied access? Or had he forgotten it completely?
One morning--it was now several weeks since his first regressive memory--Gil awoke from a nightmare, although he couldn't recall the details--just a feeling of abject terror that even wakefulness could not entirely abate. It was the first time in weeks that his sleep had been anything but peaceful. The sense of unease stayed with him at work, like something alive shifting inside him.
Later that day, Flo placed a cup of hot coffee on his desk and gently squeezed his arm. 'You look better now, you do, Gil.'
Gil offered her a smile. Reluctantly, he had warmed somewhat towards her over the past few weeks, although he was loathe to tell her of his goldfish experiences; she'd think him mad.
'All thanks to you,' he said instead, and watched her blush as she settled into her chair. In that moment, he felt strangely endeared towards her. She was a sweet girl, and when he thought about it, the only person in his life who really seemed to like him.
Pondering that thought, Gil turned back to his computer screen and was instantly overwhelmed by sickening fear. His mouth sprang open to scream, or maybe to vomit, but all that came out was a tiny, high-pitched whimper. 'Oh, do you like it?' he heard Flo say, as though from a great distance. 'It's our new screensaverscreensaverscreensaverscreensaver'. The word resounded in his head, like a ping pong ball bouncing around inside his skull.
Gil did not like it. His heart was doing leapfrogs into his throat. His flesh was cold suddenly, as though covered in a thin layer of slime. He found himself standing up, pointing at the screen, and it was as though he was watching someone else perform his actions.
A scream tore from his throat, a barely articulated syllable: 'No!'
All eyes in the room turned upon him. Flo stood up and touched his shoulder. 'Gil, what's wrong?'
'Leave them alone!' he shrieked at the terminal, tears suddenly streaming from his eyes. The shark advanced upon the little pink and blue fish--chomp! chomp! chomp-chomp-chomp!
'No!' Gil bawled. 'Don't eat them! They're happy! Don't eat them! Leave them alone!'
Gil wasn't even aware that he had picked up his coffee cup until it smashed into the computer terminal in a blaze of blue flame. Flo screamed as hot coffee splashed into her face. There were horrified gasps from the other workers and suddenly strong arms pulling him away from his desk. Gil didn't struggle, because it was over now. The tension drained from his muscles. His heart stopped its gymnastics. He had saved them.
After being summarily dismissed, Gil walked the city streets in a daze, trudging from pet shop to pet shop and saying hello to his friends. He felt strangely unconcerned with his unemployment; it was just one more chain unshackled from around his neck.
Eventually, he found himself at the city aquariam--home sweet home. If only.
He paid for his ticket and entered fishy heaven. It was a dark, cavernous place, bathed in ultramarine light. Luminous tanks lined the walls and phosphorent arrows directed visitors along the aquariam's winding passages. Strategically placed speakers suffused the air with the groaning sounds of the deep. The place even smelt salty. Gil's senses drank in the intoxicating deep-sea ambience, even though a part of him recognized it all as elaborate artifice.
Being the off-peak season, visitors were thankfully scarce. Slowly, he went from tank to tank, pressing his face against the glass, wishing his skull was amorphous so he could push it right through. The myriad of shapes and colours was exquisite--dogfish, catfish, rocklings, sea horses, sea slugs, conger eels. The variety was endless. Gil wondered if the fish felt confined in their new homes or whether they longed to be roaming the open seas. Probably not, he thought. The open sea was dangerous and full of predators. Here it was safe and secure, just like his goldfish bowl. His longing to be one of them, living in their world, was potent and tangible, a physical yearning gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He was alone in his need. There wasn't even a name for it.
He reached one of the largest tanks, set apart from the main passage by an arched walkway. The glass was wrapped around an entire wall and stretched over ten feet high. Behind it, an array of exotic freshwater fish were engaged in their sublime, aquatic ballet. A small girl had her face scrunched up against the glass. Her mother crouched down beside her. 'Aren't they beautiful, Clara?'
'I want one, mummy,' her daughter responded eagerly.
There was a notice beside the exhibit: Feeding Time, 2PM. Gil looked at his watch. It was one-thirty. He was hungry.
An aquariam employee, dressed in blue overalls and carrying a bucket, emerged from a black door, indistinguishable from the rest of the wall were it not for the No Entry sign on its front. Gil watched her leave, then held his hand against the door before it could close. Throwing a furtive glance about him, he slipped inside.
In contrast to the deep-sea ambience on the other side of the door, the decor behind the scenes was coldly austere. He made his way down a narrow, white-walled passageway, illuminated by a single bulb hanging from a low ceiling. The passage opened up onto a general storage area, containing a myriad of boxes and equipment. A connecting door bore the sign: Authorized Personnel Only. It had been left ajar.
Sneaking through, Gil found himself in an enclosed area, facing what he assumed was the rear of the large tank. It was covered in thick, blue plastic, a small step ladder providing access to the top.
Gil put his foot on the first rung and stopped. What was he doing? He had come this far operating on instinct alone. Now here he was about to do what exactly? Jump into the tank? Surely, these were the actions of a mad person. And yet here he was, putting one foot above the other, climbing towards the top of the ladder. And now, taking off his jacket, unfastening his tie, pulling off his shirt, his trousers, underwear, socks. The actions of a mad person. What was he doing? What was he thinking? He knew the answer. He had known it all along. He was just trying to be free.
As he reached the final step, he held onto the tank's rim to keep his balance. The air was cold against his bare skin. He had never been very proud of his physique--he was thin and lanky, and sometimes it seemed that the whole world was built for people who were more evenly proportioned. It was just another source of awkwardness, another reason for that sense of out-of-placeness that had plagued him his whole life. It was time to shed his skin, to unburden himself of this flesh, to embrace a new freedom.
The water was emerald green, glistening from a row of small lights attached to the ceiling. It was inviting, entrancing. God, he wanted it so much, even though he didn't fully understand the object of his desire. It wasn't something to be understood; only felt. Down below, he could see the faces of the little girl and her mother chattering away to each other. The fish were down there, too. Gil opened his arms and fell towards them.
The water's surface slapped against his body, and then he was under, the cold wrapping itself around him. His hands broke his fall at the bottom, and he had time to realise that he had forgotten to gulp a breath of air. He didn't care. He was a fish now.
Turning, he saw the other fish darting away, some of them hiding behind large rocks. The people behind the glass backed away and were staring at him in horror. The little girl's face erupted with frightened tears. He saw his reflection in the glass--thinning brown hair rising in the water, cheeks puffed and red. It was a human reflection, but he wasn't human, he was a fish. His lungs began to strain. Ribbons of pain lashed through his chest.
Fish breathe the water, and so would he. Gil opened his mouth and drew a deep lungful.
The pain was excruciating, but then birth always was; re-birth especially. His lungs would respond soon, his gils would open up, and he would be a fish. A convulsion jerked through his body and his lungs threw out the water, along with a thousand tiny bubbles that rippled across his face.
It's okay, it's okay, he assured himself. Fish do this.
Nausea lurched inside him. The world dipped and swayed dizzyingly. Gil sucked in another lungful of water and sealed his lips together. He'd keep it in this time.
Then he saw the claw. A huge, taloned thing reaching for him, swiping at his head, attempting to shred his flesh. Then it wasn't a claw, it was a hand, grasping for a hold on his neck, trying to pull him out of the water. Gil recoiled, pushed it away, and then it was a claw again, a vicious, thrashing thing, and behind it a hungy, feline face. The nightmare came rushing back, and he could see the cat forcing its way into his bowl, its talons lashing against his golden skin. And then his world was spinning, whirling, shattering around him, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, needed the water, twisting, turning, struggling for life, mouth open close open close.
His last sensation, in both lives, was pain. His last thought, in this one, was simply this: thank you.
Clara put her face up close to the bowl and gazed lovingly at her birthday present. She'd have to come up with a good name for him, she thought. What was a good name for a goldfish? She watched his little mouth go open, close, open, close, his gills rippling across his shimmering body.
A shifting cloud brought sunlight cascading through the bedroom window, transforming the bowl into a phosphorent globe, surrounding her pet with an iridescent halo. Clara could hear mummy in the kitchen, searching in her shopping bag for the little stone castle she had bought in the pet shop.
She picked up a small pot of fish food and poured some into the water. It sprinkled down like snowflakes. The goldfish darted towards the flecks and gulped them hungrily. 'Feeding time,' Clara cooed. 'See, I'm taking good care of you, just like mummy said. I love you...' And then it came to her. '...Gilly. I love you lots and lots.'
Yes, Gilly sounded right. It was a good name for a goldfish. Gill for short. He looked like a Gill.
Originally appeared in Xenos.
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