“Goldfish”

by Quentin Jakovleski

The night is cold, and so too is the day. Bleak, everything is bleak, there is no end in sight. Every morning, I wake up to the chime of an old grandfather clock, and every night I fall asleep to the quiet drone of the washing machine. My bed is very small, I wake up in pain every day, but there is nothing I can do because I can't go outside, the war prevents me from doing so. The war is a constant strain on my and many others’ sanity; I can hear my neighbors cry through the thin walls of my building; I don’t know what they are crying about, it may be the loss of loved ones, or it may just be a result of the constant sound of gunfire and screams outside. 

My apartment is small. Only 650 square feet. Every day I get more sick and tired of the same paintings on the wall, the same couch I sit on, and the same can of beans sitting atop my refrigerator. I walk towards the kitchen to make breakfast; as I turn on the stove, I hear that all too familiar sound of a bomb being dropped, and once I hear the bomb drop, I hear the screams of those whose homes had just then fallen upon them. It takes a minute, but my apartment quickly begins to fill with smoke. I cough, and I give up on breakfast.

“I live in hell.”

I slowly walk towards the tv and turned the knob, switching it to Channel 6.

Welcome to the 9 AM news. Today we'll be talking about the war, and how we hope to someday be out of it. Keep watching to find out what The King is doing to stop this war. Now on Channel 6. Our Great king will surely save us. The war will be over in just a few short days and with only 6 million casualties, says the newscaster with a big grin on his face, a strange juxtaposition with the seemingly unending frown on mine.

I sigh and turn off the TV. As I turned the knob once again, I feel a small static shock.

I look to my dead goldfish. 

“This isn't getting any better anytime soon, is it?”

It doesn't respond, it doesn't even move. I didn’t expected it would, and yet I am disappointed. The fish is the closest thing I have to a friend; it's not even alive, it just sits there floating in its algae-filled bowl, as it slowly decays, and someday, no one, not even me, will remember that goldfish's short and irrelevant life in my kitchen. 

I walk towards the fish bowl, picking it up and pouring it into the sink. My sink is now stained with the brilliant green of algae. I stand there staring into the sink as I think about how meaningless my existence is, how I am just a small drop of water in the vast ocean that is human existence. I think of how I will someday be just like that goldfish, forgotten. I stand over the sink sobbing for hours, reminiscing about the days before the war, before the bombs, when I felt joy.

I manage to muster up the courage to walk back to my bed. I fall into a deep sleep, cursed to wake up to the same chime of that grandfather clock upstairs and to fall asleep to the same quiet drone of the washing machine. I can do nothing about it, all I can do is wait and hope that my building falls next, so I can be done with this bleak meaningless existence that we call "life".