Do you guys want to read the story I wrote just now inspired the simpsons episode where homer gets a lobster named pinchy whom he grows to love like a son but then eventually boils alive and eats
The fisherman who had been my husband’s brother said he found her tangled up in his net. He pulled her out of the sea, thrashing and fighting, with a fish in her mouth. He said he thought he would sell her to the museum. I begged him, no, told him they would keep her in a tank and stuff her when she died. He was unmoved but took my money, said he didn’t want to go all the way to the city anyhow. I took her home and she fought me all the way, wailing and chewing on the ropes. She calmed down in the bathtub, rocking back and forth to make little waves in the water.
She hissed the first time I touched her skin with soapy cloth, then closed her eyes and submitted. It was a pity the barnacles wouldn’t come off, but I did my best with the rest of her. I oiled her long black hair, and combed it so gently she barely struggled. By the end she was almost purring. She cried a little as the water drained away. I wrapped her in a quilt from my wedding. None of my clothes would fit her, of course. She liked the smoked fish I gave her and ate a little bread too.
It was hard adjusting to her presence after living alone for so long. My once-peaceful nights were often disturbed by her pacing the hallway, muttering and groaning, leaving long grooves in the floor. If I left her alone for too long she would break things and pull her hair out, but if I took her to town with me people would stare and make nasty remarks. So I stayed home, and had the neighbor’s boy deliver my groceries. She didn’t like to leave the house much anyhow. She would cover her eyes and snarl at the sun. I took her to the beach once at night and she went wild, nearly yanking my arms from their sockets as she scrambled towards the water. I was still stronger than her then, and I managed to drag her away. She spent the rest of the day in the bathtub, rocking and moaning. I never took her to the beach again.
She grew taller and stronger. She molted almost every month. When a year had passed since I had bought her from the fisherman, I showed her the first molt she’d had in my house. She was speaking then, a little, but understood most of what I said. “That used to be yours,” I told her. “You used to live inside that.” She stared at it, blank-eyed. I showed her the tooth marks. “Look, you tried to eat it, remember?” She put the molt to her mouth again, and I pulled it away. “Mine,” she whined, one of the few words she had mastered. I stroked her head, but she ducked her head away after a few moments. “It’s not for eating, darling, it’s for remembering,” I told her. She looked at the floor, then turned and left the room. I hung the molt back up in the closet with the fisherman’s net and the chest of wedding presents.
“Remembering,” she said to me one morning at breakfast.
“Yes, darling?” She poked at her bread.
“Remembering before.” I said nothing.
“The sea,” she said. “You should eat your breakfast,” I said.
“Fish,” she said. Now the conversation was familiar.
“We can’t have fish every day,” I reminded her. “It’s too expensive.”
“It is not,” she replied, “I remember. There are fish in the sea.”
“The fish are hard to catch,” I countered. “There aren’t many and they swim very fast. That’s why we buy them from the fisherman.”
“I can catch fish,” she said defiantly, “I remember.”
“But the ocean is dangerous,” I said. “Remember how you got caught in the net? I saved you, so you would not be eaten like a fish.”
She stood up suddenly, angry and shaking. She was taller than me now. She threw her plate of bread at the wall, where it shattered.
“You caught me!” she screamed. I tried to stay calm. I looked down at the table.
“No,” I said patiently. “The fisherman caught you in his net. He pulled you up onto his boat. I do not have a boat, and I am not a fisherman.”
“You are the fisherman! You are the fisherman!” she screamed and then she was over the table and on top of me, her sharp knees on my stomach and her claws around my neck.
When I came to, the light looked like afternoon. There was dried blood in my hair. “Darling?” I called out. My voice was hoarse. A sound like a sob responded from the bathtub in the kitchen. Moving gingerly, I made my way to her and leaned in the doorway. She was sitting in the bathtub, rocking herself, though the tub was dry. “Do you want a bath?” I asked gently. She nodded, her face in her knees. I went to start heating up water on the stove.
“Hot!” she shrieked when I poured the water in. She started to stand but I pushed down on the top of her head as her feet scrabbled against the smooth bottom of the tub. She lost her balance and her head smacked hard against the rim of the bathtub. She went still. I went to boil more water.
Her skin was tough and leathery, but her flesh was sweet and rich and salty. I tasted my own love and the sea.
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jeezypetes reblogged this from jeezypetes and added: The fisherman who had been my husband's brother said he found her tangled up in his net. He pulled her out of the sea,...