The Eel

What is it that people say? Something about there being seven stages of grief? I’ve looked them up and whatever this stage is is not one of the widely acknowledged stages. In fact, nothing I could find online mentions this in relation to grief at all. 

Let me explain.

I have a… cumbersome burden around my neck. 

It was the day after David’s funeral, a Saturday, and I was in my parents’ spare bedroom. More specifically, the en suite, being violently sick into the toilet. David’s wake had naturally turned into a massive piss-up. Just as I was about to get up to flush the toilet I felt a wet thump on the back of my neck. Something heavy and greasy was slithering over the skin of my shoulders. I grabbed at it but I couldn’t get a hold of it; it was too slippery. I managed to get up and stumbled to look in the mirror over the sink.

My many online image searches have narrowed it down to an anguilla anguilla, or common eel. I have a black common eel around my neck and I cannot get it off. It’s there all the time. The constant neck ache is exhausting. Oh yes, it’s a big one. I have never seen a real common eel before so I can’t say if this is a normal-sized one. Lucky me, eh, I get the big boy! My big boy does not move or breathe as far as I can tell. Its eyes stare blackly at nothing. 

David was only twenty-nine when he died. He was driving down a country lane at night and had a head-on collision with another car. He died instantly. David was my older brother. He was also an alcoholic. Another thing that people say is that alcoholism runs in families but I’m not sure that is necessarily true. I think it would be more accurate to say that sadness runs in families and alcoholism is the inevitable side effect. David had always had a sadness about him and, for as long as I can remember, so has our mum, except after her fifth gin and tonic of the day. Then she’s really fucking sad. 

When we were children we spent a lot of time in the pub. Despite prioritising drinking over most things, including school attendance, our parents were uncommonly worried about our safety so like good little alcoholics they took us to the pub with them so they could keep an eye on us… and get drunk. We were never the only children there. This was our social life. We ate crisps and drank coke. I don’t remember a time when I was happier.

I went downstairs to tell my parents about the eel. They were, predictably, hungover and were both still wearing the clothes they wore to the funeral. My mum shrieked hoarsely and recoiled from me when I sat next to her on the sofa. My dad lit a cigarette from the end of his current one and stared at the eel, his eyes shrunken into his skull. He hasn’t spoken to me in weeks and it didn’t seem that the appearance of a fish around my neck was going to change that. 

I started living with my parents again after I lost my job. I’m not the most reliable employee as I usually turned up to work drunk, or hungover, or sometimes both. The customers didn’t appreciate being shown where the compost is by someone who reeked of old beer, apparently. I have a lot of time on my hands now that I am jobless. Which also means a lot of time to drink. If I couldn’t see the sadness in myself before, I can now. I can taste it in the back of my throat.

The eel becomes a familiar presence, even a comfort. I stroke its slightly damp body with one hand and hold my beer in the other. My parents have grown used to the eel. My mum no longer recoils from it. I have started to read more about eels. I learned that the common eel is a critically endangered species. This makes my eel feel special, like I am in the presence of something precious and impermanent. Though this particular eel, with its four nostrils and its gills, is permanently attached to me. My shoulders ache from its weight and my stance is stooped. I am buckling beneath the weight of it as it seems to grow. I think it feeds on my guilt. 

I no longer go out. I have worn the sofa seat down with my weight. My dad hands me a beer he has opened for me. We watch the news. My mind wanders. I think of David often. We were always so close, right up until the end. It has been two months since he died.

The day David died we had been to the cinema. We are both film fanatics and have always made sure we see the latest releases together. After the cinema we went to the pub. David had steak and chips and whisky. David always said he was such a good driver that it didn’t matter if he had a few drinks. He said it that day as we ate. He was on his fourth whisky and coke, I was only halfway down my second pint of lager. I felt fairly sober. I should have offered to drive but David always drove, and he was right, he was a really good driver. 

I will never understand how the crash that killed David left me virtually unscathed. You hear about people who walk away from a car crash. That was me, I was one of those people. I should have offered to drive.

I woke up on my parents’ sofa. The only light is coming from the telly which is showing an antiques show. I feel light. I roll my shoulders. My hand flies up to my shoulder which is slightly damp. The eel is gone. 

My feet touch the floor and I hear the gentle clink of the beer bottles on the carpet. I sigh as I bend down to pick them up and take them to the bin. For the first time in a very long time I do not want to drink.