The Half That You See

by Rebecca Rowland

  After much time puzzling, at last the mystery is solved. The eel, fourteen centimeters when I had first purchased it, has now the strength and size to fish for its own food. Clever thing, it would wait until night, when I was fast asleep, before it would hunt its prey, darting from between the rocks in the dark and clamping down with its strong jaws. But it made a terrible error in judgement. As the fish stock was depleted, it finally attacked the starfish. It bit off a limb, but finding the morsel too spiny to choke down, could not consume it entirely. In this way, by deduction, I realized the greedy eel had to be the culprit.

  The starfish has defenses of its own. Without any interference from me, without first aid or medicine, a pearly bud has grown in the stump of the eaten limb. After six days, it has grown back another tentative limb, paler in color, and not as stout or sturdy as the remaining limbs. A skinny baby limb on a grown body, like a budding branch on an oak.

  The eel has since died, starved to death after I, in revenge for it biting the starfish, stopped feeding it.

  The starfish is my best friend, alone now in its tank. It looks at me sometimes as I look at it, bending a limb at a right angle, angling its tiny eye on the end of the arm. Sometimes, it bends its arm backwards in an awkward wave. Who knows what it's trying to say? I think it's singing a song à la Edith Piaf. Like me, it enjoys the classics.

  If you stare at the starfish long enough, you can see it move. It takes a long time but I am dedicated and I can watch it for hours. In three hours, it spans the tank and back, creeping over the sand and rocks, moving from hiding within the waving vegetation to gluing itself to the side of the tank. Sometimes the tube feet do all the work and it looks like the starfish is performing a smooth glide. Sometimes the arms wave up and down in an unhurried, hypnotic creep.

  Slowly, slowly, if you watch me patiently you can see me move. I live in starfish time.

  You may think it boring to stare at a tank. I find it meditative, peaceful, a time to contemplate life. The lush vegetation sways gently, putting me in a trance. The starfish’s translucent tube feet grasp and stick to the glass. Outside my apartment, cars honk and people yell. The sirens howl and the tourists gawk. Everything is go, go, go. Everyone is move, move, move. When is the time to just enjoy time? I want a simple life: to care for my starfish, to watch its adventures, to live my own if only in my imagination.

  The more I watch the starfish, the more I realize that it looks lonely. I've watched it for six hours and all it has done is move its fattest limb and crawled only a centimeter. I've only moved to eat an old roast beef sandwich I had purchased the day before at the café and to go to the bathroom.

  I imagine the starfish before it lived in my world, living its life in the briny sea, in slow moving colonies of like-minded individuals. Where is its family? Where is its Maman and Papa? Does it wonder?

  I used to have Maman and Papa living here, taking care of me, eating our breakfast of brioche with a slice of ripe Bleu d'Auvergne, dressing me in a little boy’s sailor suit of navy shorts and white shirt. They spoke in soothing, tender voices, in slow, sonorous tones, and would kiss me on the forehead before going to bed. But like the starfish, I have outlived them. I haven’t seen them in a long time. I haven’t seen anybody, at least not socially, in a long time.

  The starfish slowly creeps and creeps; all it can do is creep. Where is it going? Maybe it's searching for a friend, for silent, comfortable company. I understand what it’s like to be alone. I am resolved to help it, and after gathering my courage, I leave the apartment with a small goldfish bowl to the pet shop on the Rue Saint-Dominique.

  Le propriétaire has a large, ruddy face, which has likely confronted many aperitifs, a bristly, welcoming moustache, and he answers my quiet bonjour with a loud, exuberant one. He speaks with a Provençal twang, not a refined, Parisian accent. I try not to recoil as he slings an arm around my shoulders and leads me around the shop. He boasts about his variety of shrimp. He tries to tempt me with a selection of hermit crabs, even some lowly tube worms. I scoff and turn my back. I tell him I'm only here to choose a friend for my only friend. He pulls his chin and brings me to the back room. My eyes light up at the selection. Small brittle stars, dozens of Asterina stars, all lovely… yet not quite right. Finally, I choose an American one, an ochre star, all the way from California, a beautiful, enticing, orange. I've always wanted to visit there.

  After he carefully places the starfish in my goldfish bowl, filled halfway with water from the original tank, money leaves my hand, and he kisses me boisterously on both cheeks before I leave.

  On my way home, an unsettling thought comes into my head. I am troubled that the starfish may not like its new brother. My palms sweat as I watch the two starfish creeping on either side of the tank. I won't be able to sleep until I know they have adjusted to each other.

  My starfish has taken to its companion. After eight hours of worried watching, I've found its fattest arm slung over the other, like an arm over the back of a long-lost friend. Finally, I go to bed relieved.

  In the morning, the California starfish has disappeared, as though it had dissolved in the tank's water. I refuse to believe my starfish has consumed it.

  Sadly, my starfish looks sick. I pet and comfort it, and speak of old times. Its color has turned from a rich dusky purple to a pale, washed-out pink with ominous white patches speckling its body. I scoop up the starfish into a transportation goldfish bowl filled with tank water and hurry to the vet. The vet has practiced for twenty-two years but has never seen a case like mine. He shrugs and says it lies beyond his expertise. He suggests I purchase another one. I visit two other vets and they also tell me it’s beyond their expertise. I won’t give up hope.

  I hand-feed my starfish, holding a freshly shucked clam close to its limbs. I am patient and I will hold the food until it takes it from me and stuffs it into its stomach extruding from its center. After several hours, the limb reaches out but—horrors!—the arm itself has become possessed. It has pulled, loosened, wiggling back and forth until it has finally detached from the body. The arm, on its own, squirms away in a worm-like wiggle, leaving the rest of the body behind. Beneath my frightened gaze, like escaping petals from a bloom, one by one, each limb detaches and crawls away. Some meet up and wrestle. Others crouch at the bottom of the tank.

  I am heartbroken. I will nurse it in its final days. Meticulously, I research these symptoms. It seems like my starfish has caught a starfish-wasting disease, a virus passed from starfish to starfish, caught from the vanished Californian companion.

  With no more limbs, feeding takes forever. I act as its missing limbs, slowly moving food to its extruding stomach in its center. It manages to wave its stumps in gratitude. I love my starfish. Can a starfish love back?

  Despite my scrupulous care, my starfish looks listless and lost. Its disembodied arms have lost their spark of life and lie unmoving, curled at the bottom of the tank. I steel myself. I am not ready to mourn my starfish, another loss in a string of losses. But one day, a bud blooms. One bud blooms from each stump on the body. A miracle!

  When it gets better, I will take it on holiday. We will go to the seaside in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, Alpes-Maritime, on a hilltop overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I will feed it scraps of oysters and mussels. I draw up the plans. How will we travel, my starfish and me?

  By Tuesday, the arms have slowly grown back. Soon the starfish is determined to crawl around the tank again. I stare at this in fascination. The resiliency and resolve of my little friend.

  I am like the starfish, resilient and resolved. My starfish is well and is looking towards better times. Unfortunately, though, for now, the travel plans are on hold.

  I see how long I can watch without blinking. My record time is seven minutes. I stare and stare; all I can do now is stare. My nose itches and I can’t do anything to scratch it. I am more like the starfish than I am to the people outside of my apartment; alas, I'm too much like the starfish. My limbs, all four of them, hav
e detached from me and are crawling to the four corners of the room. My legs and arms have twisted and turned, and it was so terribly painful that I was actually glad to be rid of them. My writhing arms meet up on the carpet and tangle about like snakes. It seems the sickness has passed from starfish to me. I can do nothing; I sit here helpless. I can only hope, that like the starfish, the buds will bloom and one finger, one hand, one arm, one by one, my limbs will regrow.

  I am patient and can wait patiently.

  Old Times

  Mark Towse

  Through the window, I watch the taxi as it rolls to a halt. The feeling of helpless spiralling washes over me, and I can feel the knot in my stomach developing.

  “I’m off then,” Jacqui says, face caked with make-up, the smell of white musk already laying heavy at the back of my throat. “Do I look okay?” she asks, patting down her dress.

  “You look amazing, love.” And she does. All of a sudden, I want to cry, and I hate myself for it.

  She gingerly moves through to the hallway, heels impossibly loud against the wooden floor, each step a painful blow to my self-worth. They come to a stop. I know she’ll be checking herself out one last time in the oval mirror.

  I think she’s cheating; I’ve suspected for a while. Recently, she’s been leaving the room to use her phone. I’m not proud, but I’ve followed her a few times and observed the frantic button-pushing. I’ve been through her text messages, but I think she’s wiping them. She’s distracted, too—even more so than usual. I hope I’m wrong.

  “There’s a load of washing to go in. And don’t forget to empty the trash, okay?”

  “Okay, love,” I reply.

  “Mustn’t forget the trash,” Jed chips in, waving his finger.

  I haven’t slept for weeks, my mind a simmering pot of anxiety and jealously. Perhaps, I’m just paranoid. Regardless, I feel like I’m slipping—back to the darker times.

  “I’m not sure what time I’ll be back. Don’t wait up,” she says.

  “Behave yourself!” Jed shouts just as the door slams, holding his middle finger in the air.

  “Shut up, Jed,” I hiss, watching her down the path.

  “Why do you let her speak to you like that?” he says. “Ordering you about while she goes out gallivanting. I wouldn’t stand for it.”

  “I love her,” I say, arching my neck to watch her step into the taxi. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  He’s not been around in months, and quite frankly, that was just fine with me. He’s rocking in the chair, legs tapping frantically. He’s agitated.

  “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” I ask.

  “Bored. Hey, want to get wasted?”

  “I’ve been sober for months, Jed. The last time you were here was the last time I had a drink. And we both know how that ended.”

  “Come on, just a little one,” he says, reaching behind his back and pulling out the bottle of golden liquid. “She’s out having fun, why can’t we have a little drinky?”

  “Haven’t you got anywhere else to go?”

  “Don’t be like that, Paul.” He twists off the cap, making a big deal of holding the neck of the bottle near his nostrils and inhaling deeply. “Ah, that smells so fine.”

  “Jed, I’d like you to leave. I’m not really in—”

  But the bottle’s already on the table in front of me.

  “Go on, Paul. It will help you relax a little, take the edge off.”

  “I promised her, Jed; said I would never drink again. She said she would leave me if—”

  “She really has got you by the balls, hasn’t she? How is all that obedience working out for you anyway? Whose fucking life are you living, for Christ’s sake?”

  I push myself from the chair and walk around the room, pausing at the mirror above the fireplace. In the subdued light, the dark circles are emphasized further. I hardly recognise myself.

  “Look what she’s doing to you. You look like shit!” he says.

  “And what’s your excuse, Jed?” I snap. “Anyway, what do you know about it? I’ve not seen you in over a year! You don’t know anything.”

  “I know you, Paul. How far do we go back? This isn’t you. You’ve lost your spark; she’s sucking you dry, and not in a good way!”

  “Look, can you just fuck off, please.”

  “One drink, then I’ll go; you have my word. For old times’ sake, come on, share a drink with me.”

  I just want him gone now. I want to wallow in self-pity and worthlessness, and he’s fucking it all up.

  “One drink, but we do it the civilized way,” I say, marching quickly through to the kitchen.

  He claps his hands together. “That’s the way, Pauly.”

  I collect two tumblers from the cupboard and fill each half full of ice. As I shut the refrigerator door, I study the three lopsided photographs of our beaming faces. They were taken five years ago on holiday; none have been added since. A wide smile is stretched across Jac’s face; she looks so happy. But how do you ever truly know?

  The sound of whisky filling the glass is heavenly, and even without taking a sip, I can feel its warm blanket already wrapping around, protecting me. The ice begins to gently crack, and its melody is hauntingly beautiful.

  “To old times,” I say, lifting the glass.

  “To old times,” Jed repeats.

  I pick up the glass and smell the whisky; it prompts a shudder, like being in a place you know you shouldn’t be. As I swirl the golden liquid around the glass, thoughts rush through my head, most of them telling me this is a bad idea. But I take the first sip, and almost immediately, my mouth is a network of hot prickles. My gums begin to tingle. I swirl it around, enjoying the sensation before swallowing. It’s so good—smooth and balanced—evoking just the right amount of burn as it slides down. Already, it’s dissolving the knot in my stomach, freeing me of all of it. I take another sip, and it begins to drown out the thoughts, turning down their volume.

  Jed smacks his lips together. “A fine drop, isn’t it?” he says. His leg has stopped shaking, the whisky no doubt working its magic.

  “It is good,” I concede.

  “Refill?” he asks, resting the neck of the bottle against my glass.

  “We said just the one, Jed.” But we both know the words are merely a formality, a half-hearted objection that is already forgotten.

  He fills the glass and smirks his smirk. “Why don’t you just leave her?”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  “It could be you and me again, just like old times. She’s stifling you, got you wrapped around her little finger. She’d be better off with a little lapdog.”

  “It’s just a rough patch.” There, I said it. “We’ll work it out.”

  “Oh yeah, I bet she’s working it out right now—talking to all the fellas about how much she wants to work on her marriage. Even with her mouth stuffed full of cocks, I bet she won’t stop harping on about how much harder she’s going to try.”

  I scowl at him before knocking back the whisky and crunching down on the ice. “I hate you, Jed!”

  “Just jesting.” He pours himself a glass and knocks it back. “Another?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “We’ve been happy. Before.”

  “Can’t say I’ve seen it,” he replies, slouching back into the leather and taking another generous sip. “All the time I’ve known you, it’s been like this. You used to be fun; now look at you. You’re a shadow of yourself.”

  “I don’t want to lose her.”

  “Never mind her, Paul. You’re losing yourself. What even makes you get out of bed anymore?”

  The whisky no longer burns as it goes down, but it’s still providing clarity. His words hit hard as only the truth can. “Fuck off, Jed. You’re just jealous.”

  He leans forward and tops us both up.

  “We used to go out on the town every week. The world was your oyster. Why did you have to get yourself tied down to that skank?”

/>   He’s starting to slur his words already. And I know that tone; good things never follow.

  “Take that back!” I demand.

  “I’m just saying—you’re obviously not happy. We could do it again; the old team reunited. There’s an ocean of pussy out there, and you’re just playing it safe in the shallow end.”

  “Jed, I’m not interested in that. Look, I really don’t want to talk about it anymore!”

  I lift the glass and tip its contents into my mouth. He fills it up as soon as it comes down.

  “I care, that’s all,” he says, tone changing to a drunken and patronizing melancholy.

  The blanket is being unwrapped; I am starting to feel vulnerable again, exposed.

  “She doesn’t care; she doesn’t give a fuck—you know that. When was the last time she did anything for you? When was the last time you made love? Hell, when was the last time she even asked how you were doing?”

  “She’s got a lot going on,” I reply.

  “Don’t we all, goddammit! You need to stop being such a pushover!” he says, slamming his hand on the coffee table.

  I sink the whisky. He’s getting to me. This is what he does; he’s even more manipulative than her. I feel my anger rising, not just with him, but with it all.

  “It’s your own fault. You let her get away with it,” he continues.

  My hand is shaking as I pour another.

  “You’re just shit on her shoe, Paul. She just wants to control you. That’s why she’s always on you to take your pills. She’s part of the system.”

  I drink the contents and refill the glass. He’s right; I know he’s right. That’s why it hurts. Each day, I hope it might get better. I don’t want much—just to be seen.

  “I love her, Jed.”

  “I know, Paul, but it isn’t mutual. Face it. It’s you and me against the world—always has been, always will be. I’m the one that’s been there from the start. Only I know what you went through as a child—the abuse, the trauma—nobody else will ever truly understand. How could they?”