Today was the day I couldn’t take it anymore.
One of his eyes were clouded up; he was turning black; he wouldn’t move; he wouldn’t eat.
I couldn’t just let my friend suffer.
I scooped him out of his tank—struggle free with my bare hands—and put him in a small cup.
I called my step-father in.
He grabbed the vodka.
He poured it in.
Gradually, Mr. Fish’s breathing slowed.
He swam up for air.
I had to turn away at this point.
I heard splashing in the water.
I had a flashback to a mere 13 days ago. My fish was glamorous, shiny and new.
I loved him.
It was about nine days later that he stopped moving.
He stopped everything. He wasn’t himself.
He had parasites and they were eating away at him.
I tried to medicate him.
I tried to change his water.
I tried everything.
He didn’t get better.
He was a scaly vegetable.
I could poke him and he wouldn’t move.
But he was breathing.

And then the waters were still.

Rest in peace, my friend.
You were the best non-human friend one could ever have.
Even though you’re a fish.