Bottlefish.

She chewed on the inside of her mouth like there was gum somewhere hidden in the wet, pink crevices that she had created with her molars. She sucked on her cheek, and she rolled her tongue on the inside of her mouth. It was obvious to anyone who knew her that she was deep in thought. Very, very deep in thought.

And all this, over a nameless goldfish.

You see, she had won this little orange-and-yellow vertebrae at a fair. It was purely accidental. She just had a mean throwing arm and an ability to beat carnival games by simply telling herself she could. The power of self-suggestion, she called it, even though she knew that the power of suggestion was something far different than the process of believing that you could outsmart carnies.

She chewed the right side of her bottom lip, and cocked her head slightly to the right. Perturbed, she looked at the little guy, swimming all around the glass container he was currently residing in. Not a care in the world, this fishy had. She liked that about him.

Or her.

She wasn't a fish expert, or an expert on anything. She had no idea what the gender of this tiny little fish was. However, this was not exactly the thought that was plaguing her childish brain at the moment. See, this particular goldfish wasn't in a clear plastic bag or a nice little traditional fishbowl. It wasn't in a gigantic aquarium, nor was it in a vase usually used for flowers. It wasn't in a lemonade pitcher, or even a plastic cup that was used once for water or a soft drink. Nope, not even close.

This little fish was inside a soda bottle.

Now, I know what you're thinking, because she was thinking it too; how the hell did they get this fish inside a soda bottle? First of all, this fish looked far too big to fit into the mouth of a glass soda bottle. Usually, the mouths of glass bottles are quite small, to ensure that you don't spill whatever you're drinking all over yourself, or all over anyone else. Second of all, how in the heck did this fish not die when they were forcing it's tiny (yet oversized; what an oxymoron!) little body inside an even tinier soda bottle neck. She had heard of putting a fish in a milk bottle, but a soda bottle? Well, that made her feel bad for the poor little guy, even though it was only, you know, well, a fish.

She jutted her very pink lips out, fashioning a pout and feeling quite sad for her new pet. She wanted to get him out of that bottle as soon as possible, but how? It's not like she could smash his (ahem, or her) home on the table... what if she broke it? What if it had a smashed fin or something wrong with it already? And also, the bottle was kind of pretty. The fish did look pretty cool swimming around that oddly shaped glass canteen. She didn't want to prolong it's suffering, but she also didn't want to make it suffer more than it already had.

It was like the poor little guy couldn't afford a better home. Like he was a hard-working dude who could barely afford to pay his rent for a shit-hole apartment, and even though he tried, he just felt himself becoming more and more suffocated by his job and his tenementesque home. And even though he tried, tried like the little train that could, he couldn't. He couldn't make enough money to move out and start a better life, with nicer people, and a better job, and a wife and maybe a dog or a kid. He was destined to live in his tiny little apartment, eating Ramen Noodles for dinner every night, and work until ungodly hours of the morning to make enough dough to subsist. He was destined to die there, and have a small funeral with a few co-workers who barely knew him, or his struggles, or his thoughts. Maybe some family, maybe an old friend or two. Maybe an ex-girlfriend with regrets that felt like she could save him. But she couldn't, because he wasn't there anymore. So she cried and cried. And so ends his subsistence wage life.

At least, that's how she thought of it.

She always thought too much, and "that was her problem", as her dad and older brother told her. She could never figure out how that was problem, so she didn't like it too much at all when they said that. And as much as she hated that saying, or when they made fun of her long, coarse, fire-red hair that she hid under a blue baseball cap and ponytail, she loved them to pieces for teaching her how to make lasagna and throw like a good softball player should. Her dad always told her that she couldn't have pets though. That she wasn't old enough. Not responsible enough. Maybe if she could keep this goldfish alive, he'd change his mind and buy her a puppy!

She immediately shook that thought from her mind and felt sorry; she couldn't believe she had tried to use a living thing's survival to her own advantage. She tucked a few flyaway hairs behind her right ear and thought hard, scrunching her forehead and making it look like all of her freckles were just one big freckle. She looked long and hard at her fish, and she smiled at that thought; her fish. It was hers, no one else's. And suddenly, saving that poor little orange animal's life was more important than how cool the bottle looked. There was no way to get the fish out of the bottle safely without smashing it, however, and she was faced with an existential crisis - how do I get this tiny dude out of the bottle without killing it?

She realized that there was no safe way to do this, and she cursed the carnie in the dirty looking wife beater that ran the milk bottle stand for placing her poor fish in such a terrible temporary home. She sighed heavily, her heart pumping fast in her tiny chest - it was time to make a decision. She grabbed the neck of the bottle, and closed her eyes. And in her head, she said a little prayer for her pet, her pet which she had only had for about an hour or so. She rolled her lips inside her mouth and made herself look like a lizard - she did this every time she had to make a tough decision. And she knew that this was do or die for her anonymous fish.

1, 2, 3... smash!

The loud noise of glass smashing on a wooden table made her yelp a little bit and probably scared her elderly neighbors (well, you know, if they could hear over their game shows, which were always up at the highest possible volume). Glass and water was now everywhere. It was such a mess, and she had absolutely no idea how she'd clean it all up before her father and brother got home. However, her frantic breathing and sporadic thought process was not exactly because of the mess she'd have to clean. No, no, it was for the fate of her fish. She imagined his little gills working over time, trying to adapt to a world that wasn't right for him. In that aspect, she could definitely relate. And maybe that's why she became so attached. But that was a different story, for a different time.

She tip-toed around in bare feet, as a safety precaution. While she was trying not to step on broken glass, she was also trying desperately to make sure she did not step on her little buddy, who had gone flying across the room. She searched as carefully and quickly as possible, until she found a infinitesimal
little orange-and-yellow blob flopping hysterically on the floor. She gulped hard and squeaked slightly, partially out of relief, partially out of nervousness.

She picked up her the anonymous fish up by it's delicate little tail fin with her left hand and grabbed a large glass with her right, filling it with as much room temperature water as she could. The fish was not moving as much now, and that scared her very much. She sniffled and began to feel tears forming, which happened when she was scared and could not see a clear ending, be it literally or metaphorically. She dropped the fragile little body into the glass as gently as she could, and waited.

The fish did not move.

Her frenzied breathing turned into quick, choking breaths. She could feel the warmth of her cheeks, the hot, salty tears beginning to flow from her eyes. In a way, she knew this was going to happen. And if it didn't happen now, than it was going to happen sooner or later. It was, after all, just a goldfish. And a fair fish at that. But in the same instance, it was her first pet. Her only pet. And she had won him. She had spent a good hour worrying about what to do about him, for him to die anyway. Her lip quivered and she let out a short but heartbreaking sob, burying her reddened face in her folded arms.

She looked up quickly, to make sure no one was home, to yell at her for the mess, or to make fun of her for crying over a fish. She looked at the glass in front of her, the glass she filled with water in an attempt to try to save the lost cause she had won with her strong throw. She gasped suddenly, her heart beat quickening immediately.

The fish was alive.

Giddy with excitement, she squealed with delight. She wiped away her tears and sadness and grinned from ear to ear - against all odds, the fish had lived. More importantly, it was her fish. Her pet. She placed her finger gently on the glass, tracing the movements it's little orange body made throughout the water.

"I'll call you... Bottlefish," she spoke decisively. The fish swam circles as she spoke. She liked to think that this was his way of responding to his name. And according to his answer, he was very happy.