Ryan Peed
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The Goldfish
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            Saul carries his box of books to the bookshelf fragments strewn across his living room floor. Hoping his jumbled collection of mass-market Stephen King paperbacks will motivate him to start building the bookshelf, which might then inspire him to start putting away the other things he’d brought over from his mom’s house weeks ago that have since been forming a crater in his kitchen, he slices the box open with a key.
            “Jesus!”
            The box leaps from his grasp, lands sideways by his toes. Books spill out over a pile of shelf pins. “Christ,” he says a second later. “Jesus Christ.”
            His old crucifix juts out from beneath a splayed copy of Cujo. He watches it lie there, remembering the time that decrepit deacon told him to never let a cross or an American flag touch the ground. He wonders if it’s worse to be superstitious or an inherently sinful Christian.
            He picks it up, because he had to eventually.
            He peels off the yellow sticky note curling from its left arm.
            Maybe you forgot this. Figured I’d send it with you just to be safe.
            ​-Mom
            Saul lowers the note and, with a sigh, regards his oversight, which was in fact not an oversight, though he really can’t blame his mom for assuming his inaction was a mistake. He is, technically, the same boy who killed his pet goldfish because he forgot it existed. 
            ​The crucifix is surprisingly light, like a clothespin. He rubs the shiny silver Jesus with his thumb, traces a growth ring outlining the chiseled torso. Faux steel, faux wood. The crucifix that hung over his bedroom door since before he could spell his name: a cheap, plastic thing.
            He remembers the story his mom frequently told. The one where he inadvertently proved God’s existence at Hobby Lobby. “You just reached for it,” she testified. “You were so young. Too young to have known. And yet, you recognized Him. Reached for Him, like you would reach for me.” By now, she was usually touching his face, her eyes full and glinting. “Because you are God’s child.”  
            ​He doesn’t remember when he stopped believing. Some days, he questions whether he ever believed; other days, he thinks he never stopped.
            He remembers the evening he brought his first boyfriend home for dinner, after his mom told him, “Of course, m’hijo. Why wouldn’t I want to meet him?” He had been skeptical of her shruglike reaction to the news of his homosexuality, and had sensed a tinge of hostility in her refusal to stop ironing to look at him, acknowledge it. The next evening, his boyfriend arrived early, wielding a sleeve of purple flowers and offering to slice carrots, peel potatoes, shred chicken. His nervousness charmed, and their stilted exchange of pleasantries seamlessly mellowed into a conversation about the differences between cilantro and parsley. Later, over bowls of filmed-over broth, they swapped funny stories and overshared with a shamelessness that made Saul squint. He should be relieved, he knew. But a part of him couldn’t believe their instant rapport, her sudden embrace of his unrighteous biology, his unnatural nature.  
            Then, as if in direct response to his doubt, she sprung into her favorite story.
            It was mostly the same–the language, the cadence, infused with the affection he’d once soaked up like a sponge. He smiled along, blushing at the occasional sideways glance from his boyfriend.
            “Because you were God’s child.”
            Saul straightened. A caesura of silence ensued; he watched her pick up her spoon, set it down. His boyfriend cleared his throat, thanked her again for dinner. She nodded, smiling. He began telling another story. She sipped her water. Smiled. Laughed.
            Saul could feel a door closing within him. 
            Saul now considers utilizing the crucifix as a doorstop. He imagines the faux wood wedged beneath the door as he transports groceries from his car. But then he remembers that none of the doors in his apartment shut on their own. He must find some other use for it. Something practical, preferably invisible. He can’t throw it away. But he also can’t hang it up. If he hangs it up, then he would never take it down. That would almost be like throwing it away. He would have to move again.
            Disappear, he prays without realizing.
            ​The crucifix trembles in his grip. He wishes it were heavier, wishes he were blameless in its burden on him. Wishes he hadn’t been the one to reach. That’s what his mom said happened. He reached. So he crossed his arms, too, and pinched his nose, and submitted to the submersion of an unrelenting baptism; now, The Holy Ghost clings to him.
            He breathes, breathes. His hand slowly opens, revealing the gleaming body. Belly-up, weightless.
            He will find a place for it. A shelf, a cabinet. Halfway off the refrigerator top, followed by a condiment-clinking slam. Then, the least visited fold of his mind. Some days, he might even forget it exists. But no matter where he puts it, he will always carry it. No matter who he becomes, he will always be the boy who killed the goldfish.
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Ryan Peed is a fiction writer from Texas. He holds a degree in Exercise and Sports Science from Texas State University. His fiction is forthcoming in Cutleaf Journal.