It began when my sister and I painted the bedroom walls an incestuous blue. At first, there were only two of them that appeared, seeped through the walls. Goldfish. All fat lips and yellow-orange ugliness squiggling as if they had all the right to materialize out of nowhere. One landed near my sock drawer. The bigger fish settled on top of the blue lamp. They wheezed as they died, waiting for water. It got worse each day. In a week, the goldfish poured from the ceilings, the unadorned walls, the surface of the dresser mirror, under the blue bed. Hundreds of them. Their husks plopped on the floor. Even in our sleep, we could hear their dying gasps. Waking up, we tread on their bodies as we dressed for work, back to the world that did not know what we had to endure inside this little blue room. We only collected them when we could no longer stand the smell, that pungent, moldy odor of decay. We talked of moving out, although by the time there was gurgling in the bathroom pipes, we knew it was already too late.
~ Kristine Ong Muslim: Maguindanao, Philippines | The Brooklyner
