SHAWNA CHANDLER is a 26-year-old Texas writer who obsesses over each story like a mother cat meticulously cleaning her kittens. Her overly licked stories have appeared in 3am Magazine, Thought Magazine, Nuvein Magazine, The Journal of the Blue Planet, The Peralta Press, Lubbock Magazine, HubStuff and an anthology called The Acorn Gathering: Writers Uniting Against Cancer. Shawna is also an Associate Editor for the furiously fresh flash fiction e-zine, insolent rudder.
the fish squeezer
“My grandpa has a chainsaw,” Joey said.
There was an urgent volume to his voice as he folded his legs beneath him on the couch in my therapy room. His eye contact with me intensified and my eyes retreated to the file perched on my lap -- morbid words staining white paper.
I turned two pages. “Really?”
“He told me not to play with the chainsaw.”
“That’s right.” I shook a finger. “Nine-year-olds should never play with chainsaws.”
“He said it could cut off my fingers!” He stuck a hand in the air. I stared at the crescent moon slivers of dirt under each fingernail. “Would that hurt?”
“Yes. Just like you hurt that frog when you cut his legs off.”
“He didn’t scream. People on TV scream when they get hurt.” Part of a willow tree hung from the ceiling – a sculpture meant to free creativity. Rainbow ribbons dangled from the dead limbs. He watched them dance in the air-conditioned breeze.
“Did you scream when you burned yourself on the heater yesterday?” I uncapped my pen.
“No, it didn’t hurt.”
“Sure, it hurt Joey. It’s a third degree burn.” I wrote the words, warped concept of pain.
“Nope. Nothing hurts me.”
“Your mom told me the parakeet screamed when you put it in the microwave last week.”
“But it didn’t bleed. It just died.” He hooked his thumbs together, flapped his hands like wings, then stuck out his tongue and dropped his imaginary bird into his lap.
“Why do you do this Joey?” The same question I asked in every session. “Why do you hurt animals?”
“How do you know they hurt?”
“Animals have feelings too.”
“Is that why you’re a vegatablearian?” He flipped his legs out from underneath him and sat on his bottom. I smiled.
“Who told you that?” I asked as I wrote the words hyperactivity and restlessness into Joey’s file – all symptoms of possible Oppositional Defiant Disorder.
“My mom.”
“Yes, that’s why.”
“But I heard you say you ate a salmon for lunch?”
“I don’t eat mammals. Fish aren’t mammals.”
“Fish don’t feel?”
“I don’t know.” I inhaled and exhaled, directing my frustration towards the Weeping Willow. “Are you taking your medication?”
“No, Mom says I’m a zombie.”
“We’ll try a different kind.”
I rummaged through the stacks of paper on my desk, looking for a prescription pad. Finding none, I informed Joey that I’d be right back, and hurried to the supply closet down the hall.
The cellophane wrapping around a group of pads put up a fight. I cut it with my fingernail.
KER-PLUNK!
I heard this sound from the office that used to belong to Dr. Kelvington before he was transferred upstate. The office was directly across from mine, and it sat empty except for an aquarium and desk.
I leapt to the almost-vacant office. There, I found Joey standing on a chair next to Kelvington’s fish tank. In his chubby hand, he clutched a mutilated Angel Fish. White goo oozed from between his knuckles. I dropped the prescription pad. Joey spun to face me. Wide eyed, he looked at the guts in his hand then back at me.
A bead of sweat trickled off Joey’s nose and I watched it race a glittery fish scale to the floor.
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© 2003 Shawna Chandler
