The Fish at the End of the Car Crash
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“I was on the verge of Becoming—” he began to say, before stopping himself.
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Kate leaned in, touching a hand to his knee. “Becoming what?”
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His eyes dragged down the length of her face, meandering along the hollow contours, and the curve of her nose, until they came to rest on her mouth. His gaze loitered there, taking in the subtle gradients of pink, and the tiny cracks in her plush lips that seemed to hint at a body accustomed to deprivation but not entirely made for it.
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“Alex… becoming what?” she repeated.
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Kate’s mouth continued to move. Open, closed, and then open again. The great reveal being a rosy tunnel of flushed accordion interior, glistening tongue, pearlescent teeth glinting against low-light, and an incisor with a barely noticeable chip in it. The tiny imperfection, etched in the enamel, flashed with her every attempt to comfort him.
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I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours. It was enough to make Alex lean closer; he imagined reaching a hand out and grabbing Kate by the face, just so he could peer down into her. In return, she would open her mouth wider, and unhinge her jaw like a snake, consuming him with all but two words. Enter Me.
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The inside of Kate was all intricately woven sinew, and porous marrow, and nerve endings that forgot to end, and a type of need that did not know how to stop needing. Her voice was soft though — the way he remembered his Nanny’s being; she was always trying to coax things out of him too. Things he wasn’t sure were even there to give.
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Alex looked towards the window, a held breath escaping him. “I don’t know,” he replied, shaking his head. “Just, Becoming. Something. Other than myself.”
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“So, growing.” The words drifted from Kate, matter-of-fact, like a dart burying itself deep in the wood beside a bullseye.
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“No.” Alex’s back was still turned to her. His eyes locked on a plume of dark indigo clouds drifting across the sky like a half-healed bruise suspended in a molten twilight.
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Kate blinked at him, owl-like. “So, if not growing then… what?”
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Alex stole a glance over his shoulder at her, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Kate just flashed him a toothy little grin, which was momentarily enough to redirect his annoyance into a subdued huff. He ran a hand over his dark blonde hair and let his gaze work over her delicate, half-starved, features until he eventually settled on her lips again.
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Alex tilted his head, and took a step closer, eating the distance between them. He wanted her, he supposed, in the same way that a shark wants to know what flavor of beast a human on a surfboard is. With a lazy sort of gnawing curiosity; the kind that satiates itself, usually, with just one destructive taste.
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“Why does it matter so much, hm?” He asked, crowding her. “Just curious? Trying to be nice? Bond. Imagining you’ll catch a glimpse of whatever you’ve decided I am.”
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“Which is, apparently, a defensive asshole.”
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Alex ignored the barb. “Kate,” he said, “you and I have a similar talent for surviving, but don’t imagine that makes us the same.” His voice lowered, as he leaned down to meet her, practically nose-to-nose, “We’re not kindred spirits, and I am not here to fill whatever void is inside of you. I’m—”
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“I don’t care about how damaged you are,” Kate cut him off.
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Alex took a step back, blinking at her in mute outrage. His lips parted to speak, but the only sound that escaped was a pathetic little, “…okay?” not dissimilar to a rusty door hinge creaking. He plunked down to the couch.
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Kate fixed him with a look — some terrible cross between exasperation and loving condescension. “Have I ever told you about the reoccurring fantasy I have?” she asked, casual as ever. “The one where I’m driving down a highway alone — in the pitch black of night, and I press my foot to the gas? Going Seventy. Eighty. Ninety. A hundred miles per hour.”
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“Kate—“
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“Then I blink, and suddenly, the windows are all open. They’re open, Alex, but I don’t know why or how they came to be that way.”
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Kate’s eyebrows drew closer as her voice trailed. She hugged her arms to her chest, fiddling with a loose thread at the sleeve of her sweater, as if the room had suddenly gone cold. “I’ve always hated when the wind whips my hair, ya know?” She said, exhaling a shaky breath. “The way it lashes my face and hurls fistfuls of flyaways into my eyes and mouth, refusing to behave even when I try to tuck the chaos away.”
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Alex was spread out on the couch now, eyes half lidded and staring straight ahead. His legs were crossed at the ankle and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie.
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“Anyway, like I was saying,” she continued, paying him no mind. “the windows are open — and I go to tuck my hair behind my ears, but I stop myself for some reason. And, instead, I let just let go. Of the wheel. The car spins out of control, and hurtles past oncoming traffic, straight into the trees, where a branch smashes through the windshield. And I just sit there… all impaled, and stuff… blinking in that startled, dazed way half-dead things tend to. Gaping at the blood leaking from my body, like I’m some sort of sentient punctured ziplock bag.”
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Kate gave a half shrug. “Then a little fish leaps out from the wound, gasping for air. ‘This is your fault,’ it says. ‘Yes,’ I always say back, ‘Sorry ‘bout that.’ And we stare at each other, until one of us finally just dies…Usually the fish does first—“
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“Does what?…”
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“Dies.”
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“Right…” Alex murmured.
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“Other times, I die first,” Kate pressed on. “Either way, we’re both gasping for air, and by the end, neither of us has any left.”
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Her eyes fixed on him then, dark grey and murky, like a well without a bottom. “What do you suppose it means?” She asked.
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Alex scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Kate — fuck — I don’t know. I’m not a dream dictionary.”
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“It’s not a dream.”
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“Well, it sounds like a dream.”
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“But it means something,” she insisted, crossing the room and sitting beside him. “What. Does. It. Mean.”
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Alex grimaced as Kate’s grip tightened on his thigh, bunching the fabric of his pants. “I don’t know,” He replied, peeling her hand away with enough pressure to blanche the surrounding skin. “Why are we arguing semantics anyway? Not every weird thought that pops into your head has some hidden cosmic meaning. God, you’re so fucking exhausting sometimes—”
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Kate’s hand unclenched, fingers finally unfurling with a quiet resignation.
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“I always knew you were the fish,” she whispered to herself, eyes somewhere far away.
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By Shayna Cristy-Mendez
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Shayna Cristy-Mendez is a New York native, poet, film lover, and Riot Grrrl enthusiast. Her poetry has been featured in Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Luna Literary Journal, Tempered Runes Press, and Hawai'i Pacific Review. Shayna’s work delves into themes of isolation, trauma, and regeneration, often drawing from her own experiences. Never one to shy away from the darker aspects of life, her writing offers readers an unfiltered and unapologetic glimpse into the deeply personal.
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Instagram: @viciouschipotle​​​​​​