The Neighbor’s Goldfish
By Ashley Dryden
I saw her today, the next-door neighbor’s goldfish.
They keep her in a shabby, old pond in their backyard where the lawn meets the patio. I watch her swim around the lily pads from my second-floor bedroom window, every splash of her tail makes ripples along the surface of the water.
The neighbors like the attention she brings. They’re a cheerful, young couple who love to show her off, always having parties in the backyard. And when the other neighbors learn about the pond, they learn about the goldfish too. I was never invited but the noise they make keeps me up late. The only thing that’s quiet in the neighbor’s yard is the coin jar they keep in the center of their patio table.
The wife loves to go on and on about the goldfish. She spends hours chatting about how the fish is a fancy breed and how fancy breeds often get sick and require higher maintenance. It’s the only thing she ever talks about with anyone. The husband is just happy to be there. He isn’t afraid to mention that the goldfish belongs to his wife, not him. He’s fine with it and often mentions how the wife had the goldfish for many years before she met him. Sometimes he posts photos on social media of him standing next to the goldfish.
. . .
It was a few weeks ago that I noticed something. Through my binoculars, the shimmering orange goldfish was struggling on its side when she tried to roll herself upright. Her scales had begun to flake, and the delicate fins were rotten and torn. In the murky water, I could hardly see her. The thick punch of cloudiness had caused the lily pads to wither. It took effort to see the goldfish under the smoky water, and for a moment, I wondered if she was even there.
I wasn’t sure if I should say anything at first. I didn’t know anything about goldfish. But the neighbors claimed they did. The wife was glad when someone brought her up at a party after seeing the goldfish tilting to the right.
The wife insisted it was due to the breed and that it came with health problems. She wasn’t silent for the rest of the party, laughing and smiling away. Neither was the coin jar.
The goldfish, though, kept declining and the community began to fear the worst. I remember when the cops were called to the neighbor’s house. The wife was screaming and kicking her feet as the officer took the goldfish away. The goldfish was given to the old lady at the end of the cul-de-sac. She posted pictures of herself standing next to the goldfish playfully swishing around in a clean tank. Nobody attended the wife’s parties anymore. The coin jar was empty.
But a few days later, binoculars in hand, I saw the goldfish swimming in the pond again, her scales shining in the moonlight. The wife stood on the patio looking over the pond. She had a pair of scissors in one hand and a bottle of gunk in the other. I couldn’t make out what type of gunk it was, but it sloshed around the nose of the bottle while she poured it into the pond. Then she took the goldfish out of the pond by its tail and beat it against the side of the house. She smacked it hard, the scales popped off like sparks from fireworks and blood splashed onto the patio. At the end of the thrashing, the wife took the scissors and cut up her fins before throwing her back into the pond.
. . .
It’s not long before the neighbors start attending the wife’s parties again. Nobody mentions “the incident,” and those who bring up the old lady in front of the wife are kicked out. Every so often I look over at the pond and see the goldfish, her fins shorter, her speed slower.
One day, after the neighbors leave the house, I sneak into the yard to see the goldfish. When her head comes to the surface, I show her my bucket and tell her I can get her out of this place. I promise I will take her somewhere safe where she will never be beaten again.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the fish says. “The people in this house love me. I’m not going to let anyone take me away ever again. And the coin jar needs to be fed so my people are fed.”
I beg her to listen, but she bites my finger and swims under a lily pad. I go back home.
. . .
So, yes, I saw her today, the neighbor’s goldfish. The police found her body on the patio this morning.
. . .
I’m a writer and a college graduate who has always been a fan of symbolism and horror. I’m into writing, video game making, and photography. I have two dogs at home, and I love my parents.
Photo credit: Güldem Üstün via a creative Commons license.
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