Iris

Get in here! Dad shouted

like I was some disobedient dog.

My skin started to tingle.

What had I done wrong?

I wasn’t late,

didn’t leave him with an untidy house,

even made tuna sandwiches –

covered them in cling film to keep the bread from

drying out,

the corners from curling.

I found him in the bathroom

holding the vase I used as a fishbowl

over the toilet.

A vein in his neck throbbed.

And

I knew what was coming.

Didn’t we talk about pets? he asked.

I watched Iris swim in gulpy circles,

stupidly unaware her life was on the line.

I envied that about Iris:

she couldn’t remember, or plan, or worry.

Some nights I watched her

circling, circling, circling,

deleting her memory as she swam,

two fins up to the future.

I always wanted to be like that,

but my stubborn brain stockpiles everything –

the good, the bad and the boring –

and when I’m alone

I scan,

left and right,

looking at my life,

never able to find any safe place.

Whose house is this?

I bowed my head,

hoped that if I seemed sorry he’d settle down.

Yours, I said. But –

And what did I say when you asked for a cat?

He knew exactly what he’d said about a cat

because he doesn’t have the memory

of a goldfish either.

He was making me suffer –

forcing me to admit

he was right,

I was wrong.

I stepped into the bathroom.

I got her free at a summer fete

ages ago.

I didn’t know what to do with her.

His lips twisted.

Yeah, what to do with a brainless goldfish?

Here,

let me show you.

Without a hint of hesitation he

tipped the vase,

poured the water

and Iris

into the toilet bowl and

flushed it.

So that was it.

Iris was gone,

drowned in piss and shit.

You’ll listen next time, Dad said,

handing me the empty vase,

storming past Kelly-Anne

at the top of the stairs.

I didn’t answer,

which was always the best way to deal with it.

And anyway, I knew it wasn’t the last I’d hear of it.

My punishment had been too quick.