Ryan’s Guide on Being a Goldfish

“Since you’re gonna be stuck here for a while, why not get some of your real assignments done. Yeah?” My mother hands me my laptop.

I frown, taking in her hard gaze.

However, her attention trails to my busted knee; under itchy bandages lies my torn ACL. I run my fingers over my scratched computer, sinking into my swelling body. Her dark eyes seem to whisper to me, ushering further in my head what the rest of my family believes. I stick out like a sore thumb in comparison to them—out of a family of doctors comes a son who prefers movies over medicine.

She caresses her forehead firmly.

From her twitching lips, I know it’s coming…

“You’re twenty years old, Ryan. You gave up on a good career, and yet you still hang with those friends of yours.” My mother’s sharp attire creases at the elbows.

I’m not surprised how her words still make my face scrunch.

“It was for my film class.” I murmur.

“And it cost you your knee. Where’s a film degree gonna take you in life?”

I switch my focus on the fading blankets. The scent of the old linen closest almost becomes a shield against the daggers. I love that linen closet…

‘I can’t do anything right.’ I think slowly, relishing the patterns of the fraying quilt.

A lecture is revving up in her mind, but her breath escapes upon looking at her watch.

“Shoot. I’m gonna be late.” The dominant click of her heels fill the house. “Keep yourself busy. You know what your father says.”

“Doing nothing makes him crazy.” I recite flatly.

She slips on her long, leather coat.

I watch her hover in the door frame—for a split second, her shadow seems to envelope her, delicately touching her physique. However, her next words strike me, “Oh, and no video games. Call if there’s an emergency.”

When she leaves, a cool blanket of solitude wafts over me.

I observe her get in the family minivan and disappear into a cloud of exhaust. Even then, I stare into a world that never stops spinning: the Ashington siblings stand at the corner, waiting for the bus; the newest couple across the street kissing each other goodbye. In the house next door, through the window, the old lady Ms. Lakely watches the morning news. The whole block radiates in ambition, yet I watch behind glass. For the first time I understand how a goldfish feels.

I peer into Ms. Lakely’s television—the woman news reporter is a beacon of hope.

A stereotype in majoring in film is people often think I want to be a director. It’s high up there, maybe just as high as a doctor, but I don’t wanna be a director—I don’t think I can do it anyway. Instead, reporting the news always seemed interesting. There’s something about standing in front of the camera, delivering information with a charismatic persona that speaks to me in a way delivering medical news does not. There’s a sense of freedom in speaking for a fast-paced environment I can’t describe—a sense of belonging almost, yet my family doesn’t see it like that.

I started college in nursing, following my mother’s footsteps, but within classes I was too busy surfing the internet. Sports, gaming, DIY, politics… anything under the sun to help with the excessive homework. However, my favorite assignment was to make a video about our understanding of the human heart. For just a flicker I thought maybe nursing wasn’t too bad—a short film about me exploring a heart as though it’s a whole planet. For a moment I felt seen; not just for my interest in television, but because I got a solid 85—the highest grade I got from the past two semesters.

But what goes up, must come down unfortunately.

I put so much time into that video that I neglected my other classes—I thought having one solid exam would show I can do something, but I guess not. I watched my letter grades drop like flies, and then one day I was told I failed out of nursing. The worst part, the college wasn’t the one to tell me first.

My heart dropped to the floor upon my family’s disapproval. The disappointment in their eyes and harsh tone, I caved into a tight corner. Black darkness swept too easily in the house that night, and I felt as though more than two pairs of eyes were drilling into my soul. Then when I announced I wanted to major in film… it was like the lights were killed. At least, I swear the electricity went out—my parents say otherwise. They say I spend too much time watching television.

After a few hours, the television starts looking at me weird. For a moment, it’s as though the characters are whispering about me through the screen. Their hard staring is demeaning, yet the hairs on my arm stand. I shake my head.

Maybe they’re right that I watch too much TV.

I shut it off, but the stillness of the house takes its place. No hum of the hair dryer, no raging sports in the basement, just a silence too easy to drown in. The small living room becomes tight all of a sudden. Even if it’s just me here I can’t shake off the feeling I’m not truly alone either. Time itself leaves me in the dust, yet all my assignments haven't been touched—I can’t bring myself to. There’s a weight in my chest that keeps getting heavier as the day drags on. It’s lonely, but even my distorted reflection on the TV stares back as though I’m a stranger.

I picture my father shaking his head at me. He may only indulge in TV sports, but as an eye surgeon, he believes television is a waste of time—let alone doing nothing. He says sports are education; that they’re perfect topics to talk endlessly about. For a seeing doctor, he’s blinded by his own success, and I fall prey. His deep voice echoes in my mind, urging me to believe filmmaking is a terrible choice.

My knee starts locking.

I take off the blankets, carefully getting the crutches provided from my eldest sister. The physical therapist of the family—my parents are already setting appointments with her for my ACL. A part of me isn’t a fan of how my potential therapist will be Samantha, on the other hand, I know it’s because Samantha can’t do anything wrong. She has perfect achievements across the board. Good for her and all, but no matter what I do, I still fall short in her shadow.

A sharp pain radiates under my kneecap. I grit my teeth, hobbling to the kitchen—a different scenery is probably what I need. It’s almost breaking news to me in the power a room can have on a person.

Breaking news…

An idea hits me as I slowly sit at the table. I take my phone out of my pocket, balancing it against the napkin holder. I smooth out my yellow and blue sweatshirt, putting on a presentable persona.

“Ryan Watzelle reporting live at the alien invasion happening right here in New Jersey.” I grin, using my hands to gesture to my backyard. Even though my premise is alien-free, I picture a silver UFO. “Approximately at five forty-five in the evening, little green men were caught leaving the UFO. As you can see here—” I open the blinds from my seat, yet heavy footsteps erupting from the stairs catch my attention.

I silence myself, narrowing my eyes.

I mentally check the house—nobody is supposed to be here besides me. I don’t have any pets scurrying around, and my sister has her own place.

The footsteps disappear into the creaking of the house.

I flicker my attention to my phone that’s still rolling.

“Those little green men do like playing tricks, so watch out.” I force a smile, attempting to comfort a nonexistent crowd. Gulping, I continue, “Anyway, be cautious. Here at the station, we heavily advise staying indoors until further notice. Lock the doors and windows, and keep watching the TV. We’re trying our best…,”

Heavier footsteps echo from upstairs.

My heart nearly stops beating.

Those footsteps trigger memories in my head—the dominant trailing of my father plays in my mind as though I’m a kid again, hiding in the linen closet due to a poor test grade. The creaks of upstairs grow persistent; there has to be somebody else here.

I feel my arms reach for my phone, but I’m too far gone in reminiscing the hefty steps. I can’t bring my attention away from the doorframe of the kitchen leading into the living room. The pale kitchen walls start closing in on me, yet my leg is crippling—I reach for my crutches… but I can’t feel them. I turn to see they’ve fallen to the floor in a position too far from my reach.

The sight strikes my heart cruelly.

From the frame spills out pools of black. Those shadows from before start swallowing the living room, crawling towards me. My family’s eyes swim in the darkness—their disapproving looks cut through my shrinking body.

“You can’t do anything right.” Their eyes seem to mutter.

My soul shatters.

“I like making videos…,” I don’t believe my own words. The shadows draw closer, and ironically, there’s a sense of safety in the critical abyss—the footsteps ricochetting in my ears start becoming an anchor in the darkness. All of a sudden, the need to cave into a corner starts to disappear.

Something burns against my skin.

I look to see my phone is still recording. My inner news reporter is dying, but for some reason I don’t stop the video. Internally I somehow believe that maybe recording the shadows would make me into something—show I can do something after all.

However, there’s nothing on the phone’s camera.

Not a single speck of black is found on the screen, yet as I look up, a dark void circles around me like starving sharks.

Nausea squeezes my stomach, but the darkness doesn’t seem threatening anymore.

For a split moment, I do ponder about my videos. What I do alone flashes across my mind and briefly I’m caught in the middle of the storm between what I truly want versus what my family thinks. However, my strength quickly tarnishes—the storm rages on.

Maybe this is what it’s like to be a goldfish—stuck in a bowl to be seen, but even then, goldfish do things right by looking pretty.

I can’t do that. Even if I tried, it won’t be good enough.

I succumb to the darkness, real or not because I know my family is right.