Red Pepper Houmous

My goldfish is immortal. My goldfish needs to die. My goldfish is an orange guppy named Phoebo. The average life span of a goldfish in aquaria is seventeen months. Phoebo has been alive twelve years. I did not sign up for this. My supplementary goldfish dutifully passed ten years ago. I feel that Phoebo needs to stop being such a haughty braggart and get on with it. I dislike Phoebo. He has a blasé expression on his face constantly. I have to clean his tank constantly. I therefore feel it is best for both parties if I perform involuntary euthanasia.

'Humane way kill fish,' I google. First entry: Freeze the fish in an ice cube; then blend. This intrigues me. Second entry: It is more humane to simply pour clove oil followed by vodka into the tank. I tell myself the kerfuffle involved in purchasing vodka at the age of sixteen is my reason for dismissing this suggestion as the less humane.

In an attempt at mitigation I feed Phoebo a treat. He stares at me, blasé.

I enter the kitchen and fill a £0.24 ÄLMHULT Ikea mug with water. I return to my bedroom and intrepidly lift Phoebo with two fingers. He feels like he's covered in butter. His supercilious facial expression takes me off guard. Now he simply looks resigned. This sudden spate of evocative expression hinting at underlying emotion unnerves me. I choose to ignore it. It is too late to turn back now. I plop him into the mug and place it in the freezer.

I take the time whilst Phoebo and the water become one to commence my cover to cover reading of Oxford English Dictionary. Gratified, I reach the Z's. Shortly I am interrupted by Mole. Mole is our lodger, a middle aged women whom I register one might describe as zaftig. I don't like names. I like nicknames. Mrs. Johnson has a large mole under her right eye. She is Mole. Mole likes to rile me.
'Dwayne,' She says, tentative. 'I was just fetching some mince from the freezer and found a mug that- it appeared to have a goldfish inside, in some half frozen water.'
She looks at me expectantly.
I look at her vacantly.
'Do you know why, Dwayne?' She asks with a hint of perturbation.
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'I put it there.'
'Why?'
'I'm freezing it.'
'Why?'
'So it will be frozen.'
Mole makes a half growl, half sigh noise and walks away.
'Don't touch it!' I bellow after her.
'Zephyr' means a mild gentle wind or breeze.

I switch on the blender and take Phoebo out of the freezer. I stand above the blender and thump the mug to make the ice cube fall out. This is the one moment I allow myself to feel flagitious. I remind myself it is the most humane method, according to fishkeeping.co.uk at least. It looks like a snowglobe, falling fast into the impending doom of our least used kitchen appliance - a snowglobe containing garish orange feathers and pom poms that some twelve year old girl created in D.T. Class. The fish reaches the blades and I scrutinize in awed enthrallment. The allure of seeing an orange guppy pulled apart like candy-floss is unexplainable. After seventeen seconds I turn the blender off. Phoebo looks like red pepper houmous. I pour the mulch into the food waste and clean the blender scrupulously.

I return to my bedroom and lay on my zaffre coloured bed. The empty aquarium looks like a glass box lined with green felt. It may as well be now. I realize I liked Phoebo. I fear that the algae was a zariba, blocking me from the fish who was alright, really. All I saw was the dirt. My guppy was reduced to a murky orange blur.

Mole re-enters my bedroom and stares pointedly at the fish tank.
'Where's Phoebe?' She asks. She has planned her restrained expression.
'It's Phoebo.'
'Where's the fish?'
'He died.'
'How?' She is not going to accuse me.
'He's been alive twelve years.'
'Are you saying he died of old age?'
'He is old. He died.'
'You killed him!' She blurts, zealously.
I straighten my bedsheet. 'He was a good fish.'
I look at her cowering lip. She believes I'm trying to antagonize her. I feel bad.
'That dress hugs your curves very nicely, Mrs Johnson. You look most zaftig.' She is unable to cope with my multiple personalities. She leaves.

He was a good fish.