And in the night, the walls disappeared.

It's 6 PM.
I burrow my head between my arms and rest my forehead on the cold wood of the table. Dinah is making soup, but I'm ill. There's a gaping hole in my stomach right below my ribs. It's just the right size, maybe a little larger than my fist and a little smaller than a baby chicken, but if I try to stuff it I start throwing up and my chest aches all over. „I'm not hungry,“ I say. „You have to eat or else you'll get ill again,“ Dinah says, and I tell her that I'm already ill. She asks me when the last time I ate was. I say Monday, it's actually Saturday. Today is Wednesday. Dinah sighs and says that if I don't start eating again tomorrow she'll call a doctor. She pours the soup down the sink. Sometimes I forget whether Dinah is my mother or my sister. I don't know how old she is.

It's 7 PM.
The first time I meet him is at the local town fair. It's already dark out by the time I get there, but in the bright lights I don't really notice much of it. Dinah had said she would let me go here by myself as long as I promise to eat once a day and don't talk to strangers. (I haven't eaten in two days, but I don't think she knows.) And that's when I see him, just standing in the middle of the town square like he owns it. He's a stranger, but he's a pretty stranger, and so I walk up to him and tell him, because Dinah doesn't have to know. He doesn't laugh. Instead, he says „thank you“ and says that my hair reminds him of birds. I smile and ask for his name. (If I know his name, he's not a stranger anymore.)

It's 8 PM.
Dinah slips on a short red dress. She says that it used to be a prom dress and that the girl it belonged to had her throat cut open by her own boyfriend just the morning after. Every piece of clothing in her closet has a story behind it, each of them more gruesome than the next, and Dinah has told me all of them at least once. (I sometimes wonder if she made some of them up.) “How do I look?” she asks while turning around her own axis. I point out that it sags around the chest, and she makes a small sound somewhere between a sigh and a hm and takes it back off. Dinah's closet is ordered by colors – blacks on one side, whites on the other and reds, blues and greens in the middle. (No yellows.) She takes out a long velvet gown (cancer patient, hung herself after her hair started falling out) and pulls it up around her hips and slips her arms into the long sleeves. I get up to help her pull the zipper closed, she spins around and at that point she looks like an old English lady who smells of cigarettes. (Which she sort of does.) “Is this good?” she asks, and I nod. (Sometimes I can't help but ask myself whether this is what normal life is supposed to be like.)

It's 9 PM.
There's a large window on one side of my room, right above my bed. The glass is slightly crooked and there's cracks on the bottom right corner, and when it rains a lot it leaks at times, but I don't really mind anymore. There's days when I like to just sit on my bed and stare outside, and it makes me feel like I'm a goldfish and this is my fishbowl, and everyone in the outside world doesn't really care I'm there, and the thought of that makes being alive seem a little less scary. (I used to own a goldfish when I was eleven. Dinah named him Moby Dick, and I didn't really care he was there either.) When I was a child, after we had just moved into this house, I'd sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and rest my forehead against the window pane, until the cold from the glass was so unbearable on my skin that it would take my mind off my nightmares and I'd be able to fall asleep again. (I had the same nightmare every single time. I don't remember much of it these days, but it always ended the same way, with my head forced under water until I couldn't breathe, and that was when I would wake up.) I can see the town square from here. Marlon is standing in his same spot again, like a statue, with his eyes focused into empty space. I know he can't see me from where he's standing, or even know where I live, but I kind of want him to notice me. I hear Dinah's car pull into the driveway, and so I lie down and pull the covers up to my nose. (Dinah doesn't like it when I people watch.)

It's 10 PM.
I am standing on the bridge just outside of town. It's been raining a lot lately and the river is overflowing just a slight bit. If I shine my torch at just the right angle and squint a little I can almost see the fishes down there. They look green and blue and purple, but maybe that's just from the light and from the water. Maybe they're actually rocks and not fishes and I just think they're fishes. (When I was a child, I thought that fishes just lived normal lives down there in the water, with little fish houses and fish cars and everything. Looking back, I think that maybe they do.) I hear someone coming down the bridge, and so I turn around and shine my torch down onto the ground. (Dinah says I'm not allowed to go out at night and look for fishes because people in town think it's weird. I do it anyway.) It turns out to be just Marlon. “Bird Kid,” he says and asks me what I'm doing here around this time. Marlon doesn't seem like the type of person to laugh or think I'm weird, and so I tell him the truth, “I'm watching the fishes.” “I don't think there are any fish in this water.” “I know.” (That's sort of a lie, because in my mind there actually are fishes in the river, but I don't want to tell Marlon that yet.) Marlon laughs. “You're weird, Bird Kid. I like that,” he says, and I'm not sure what to say to that. “Well, see, I never caught your name, and your hair looks like a bird, so I'm just going to have to call you Bird Kid. That okay?” “You told me that about my hair before,” I say, “I remember that.” Marlon doesn't say anything, but he looks like he's waiting for me to say something. I can't think of anything to say either, so I just repeat myself. “I'm watching the fishes.” Marlon laughs again, but it's a good laugh, and asks me how fish watching works. He seems to be actually interested, and so I tell him: “Well, it's kind of a game but not really. It's not really about fishes.” Marlon just says “Oh,” (the good kind of oh) and wraps one arm around me. (His body is all warm and he smells like pine cones and french fries. It's sort of nice.) We just stand there in silence for a minute or three before Marlon begins to speak again. “You know, Bird Kid,” he says, “I don't actually like birds. But I think I like you.” I smile once again and tell him that my name is Connor.

It's 11 PM.
The hole in my stomach is bigger now. I think I'd be able to stuff both my fists into it if it was possible. Dinah is boiling milk and crumbing bread. “What was the last time you ate something?” she asks, I say Thursday. (I can't actually remember.) Today is a Saturday. Dinah puts the small pieces of bread into a bowl and pours the hot milk on top. Just the smell makes me want to vomit. “Eat,” she says and places the mixture in front of me. I tell her that I feel ill, and she says “drink”. I know that she's going to call the doctor if I don't eat for longer than three days, and so I lower my head and sip off the edge of the bowl. Dinah pushes back the chair across from me and sits down. I know she's watching me, so I keep drinking until I've finished half of it and I feel like I'm going to throw up any second now. Dinah hands me a spoon, so I swallow two spoonfuls of soggy bread too. I feel like death. Dinah says how proud she is of me for eating. I don't know what to say to that, so I just turn the bowl in my hands. Dinah reaches down into the pocket of her apron. “I found this while cleaning out old boxes a few days ago,” she says. She pulls out a thin necklace with a golden brown stone pendant. “Real amber.” She leans across the table and fastens the clamps around my neck. “I'm fairly sure this used to be your mother's.” I don't remember anything about my mother, but I say “thank you” and run my fingers across the stone carefully. “Thank you,” I say once again.

It's midnight.
I can hear the church bells from here. (Dinah always says I shouldn't go out after midnight, but it's only been midnight for a few minutes and I've been out for longer than that so it doesn't really count.) Marlon and I are standing in his spot in the town square again. He lights a cigarette and I say that smoking is bad for his health. Marlon laughs (a thick raspy laugh) and says that he's going to die young either way. I ask him why. “Because,” he says and exhales a big cloud of fog; I can't tell whether it's cigarette smoke or from the cold. “Because the good ones always die young.” He takes my hand. Marlon's hand is warm and bigger than mine, and it feels right so I don't pull back. I'm fairly sure my hand is all clammy and cold right now, but Marlon doesn't seem to mind. (Holding hands with me is like holding a dead fish. At least, that's what Dinah used to tell me.) “But I'm glad that you're not one of the good ones,” Marlon says. I raise my head, and he continues, “I wouldn't want you to die young.” I'm not sure how I should feel about that.

It's 1 AM.
Marlon and I are sitting on the dark leather sofa in Dinah's living room. (Dinah always tells me I shouldn't let strangers inside the house, but she isn't here right now. Besides, Marlon isn't really a stranger.) Marlon is warm all over and he smells like pine cones again. His body is soft against me, softer than mine will ever be. I bet my bones are poking him right now, but he doesn't complain. (Somehow, being with him makes being in this room a little less weird.) “I like your necklace,” Marlon says and runs his fingers across the pendant. I say “thank you,” and I add, “real amber. Used to be my mother's.” “Your mother, the coroner?” I shake my head, “Dinah's not really my mother.” Marlon just says “oh”. We lie there in silence for around a minute, until I get the feeling that I should probably say something. “It's not that bad, really. I can't even remember my real mother, I think I was six years old when she died” I say, and Marlon nods. He opens his mouth, but instead of saying anything he leans forward, and then his lips are attached to mine. It feels right, so I open his mouth and let him kiss me. I'm not really sure what else to do at that moment, so I just sit there for a second or three, head tilted back, open-mouthed, with his tongue between my teeth. (Even kissing me must feel like kissing a dead fish.) Marlon pulls back and sits up. “Wow, I'm sorry,” he says, and I'm not sure exactly what he's apologizing for. (So I grab him by the jaw and kiss him again.)

It's 2 AM.
Dinah rubs her eyes and places a cup of warm milk on my nightstand. She asks me what's wrong. “I had that bad dream again,” I say and take a careful sip. The milk is still scalding hot, but I swallow it all. “The drowning one?” I nod. “You haven't had that one in a while,” Dinah says, and I say that it's been two years now. She turns the candle she's holding in her hands and sighs. “Listen, it's all going to be okay. Just don't think about it anymore, try to go back to sleep. No one's going to drown you,” she says and stands up, and I don't really want to talk anymore so I just mumble “alright”. “Good night,” Dinah says and blows out her candle. (The light coming from the hallway shines through her dressing gown – pneumonia – and it makes her look like a ghost. A ghost wearing ghosts' clothing.) I say “good night” too and she closes the door. For a few seconds I just lie there and listen to her steps getting quieter. When I'm sure she won't come back, I sit up and rest my forehead against the windowpane. I close my eyes and inhale, and I count to twenty. When I've finished counting, my skin is stinging from the cold, and I exhale and open my eyes. I'm a goldfish and this is my fishbowl and the outside world can't hurt me. Right now the outside world is empty and all the lights are out. Even Marlon isn't standing in his usual spot in the town square. I'm a goldfish and this is my fishbowl and the outside world can't hurt me. (It's sort of funny too because you cannot drown a fish.)

It's 3 AM.
The first time Marlon and I fuck, it's up against the window in my room. My hands and face are smushed up into the cold glass, but I'm way too warm on the inside to actually feel the sting. Right below where I placed my hands, the water runs in thin droplets down the windowpane and leaves curvy little track marks against the fogged up glass. I feel like maybe I'm a melting ice block or maybe I'm a fire and I'm melting down the house. (Either way, it's not all that bad of a feeling.) Marlon wraps his hand around my throat and asks me if this turns me on. It takes me a second or three, but then it's all there, the moisture on my face and arms, Marlon's hand, his hot breath on the back of my neck and the way he thrusts into me. I'm pretty sure I'm an ice block now. “Yes,” I choke out, and Marlon moves closer to my ear and calls me filthy. I'm basically halfway molten ice in his hands by now, and it only takes another two or three thrusts after that before I finish and so does Marlon. My knees buckle when I open my eyes, and so I let myself fall down onto the mattress. My hair lies flat on my head for once and my body sticks to the sheets with sweat. (I used to be an ice block but now I've melted down.) “Are you okay?” Marlon asks, and I can only barely manage to nod. I can see the view from my window from here, but I don't feel like a goldfish anymore. I feel filthy. (Filthy feels good.)

It's 4 AM.
My earliest concrete childhood memory is probably Dinah taking me for a walk in the woods when I was nine years old. That was back before the swamp was drained, and so we walked along the edge of it, with Dinah clutching my hand in hers so I wouldn't fall. After a while, Dinah asked me if we could stop and take a seat for a few minutes, and it was while she was sitting on a bench that I found a dead frog. It couldn't have been dead for all that long, but flies were already swarming around it and its little frog belly had begun to swell. I remember taking a stick and poking it, and it didn't take too long until its skin ruptured and its organs were exposed and glistening in the sunlight. I just stood there for a second or three, looking at the small carcass in front of me, the flies already beginning to circle it once again. The whole situation just sort of scared me, and I wasn't exactly sure what to do at that point. I raised my right foot and kicked it into the gaping hole, over and over, until the tip of my shoe was covered in frog guts and the stink of death. It was then that I heard Dinah's voice from behind me, “don't touch it, it's covered in germs,” and so I turned around and whispered “okay”. She grabbed me by the hand and we went back home, and she never noticed the mess on my shoe. It's sort of funny that this of all things is my last thought, because this is just how I feel right now, like a little frog carcass with a bloated belly. I must stink like death too. (The only thing missing is the flies.) I can't remember how much I ate, or when the last time I ate before that was, but I do know that it was too much and too long ago, respectively. I roll off my chair onto the cold kitchen floor, and this time the cold is almost soothing. I put both hands over my stomach, onto the place where my hole once was, but now the hole is overstuffed like a bad thanksgiving turkey. (Don't think about thanksgiving turkeys.) Maybe I should just wait down here until I die and someone covers their shoes with my guts.

It's 5 AM.
Dinah only lights spherical candles when she's mad at herself. Usually it's because of me, or her job, or me, or the people in town. (Mostly me.) This time, it's a phone call. She finishes lighting the last candle and motions me to sit down on the sofa. There's a candle on the arm rest beside me and two on the back rest. This is at most the third time I've been in this room, and it's the first time that Dinah and I are in it at the same time. It's also the first time that I've been in the same room with her during one of her spherical candle moods. My stomach cramps up, but it's not from hunger this time. The hole is still gone. Dinah takes the seat across from me and straightens her dress (emerald green velvet, heroin overdose). “The woman from child services called today,” she says. “They've gotten my reports.” She pauses and scrunches a handful of her skirt in her fist. I think I can see teardrops glistening on her face but I could be wrong. “And they said that they don't think I'm capable to take care of you anymore. That they've given me enough freedom in raising you. That maybe, I just need to face the fact that you need professional help.” She pauses once again and wipes at her cheeks. Now I'm sure she's crying. “You're gonna be put into foster care. We've got three more days.” She reaches for the box of tissues on the coffee table and blows her nose. I wish I could say something at that point, but I can't say anything. I don't know if it's because I'm shocked or because I know in some corner of my mind that I'm actually not shocked at all. (I can't even tell if I'm shocked in the first place.) “I'm so sorry, Connor, I'm so sorry.” The mascara runs down Dinah's cheeks and paints them with jagged black lines, almost like cracks in ice. (Maybe we are both ice blocks.) I still don't know what to say. “I'm so sorry,” Dinah says once again, and I want to tell her to stop saying that, because it was my fault all along. Instead, I tell her that I have to do something and ask if I can go out for an hour or two. She takes another tissue and wipes the dark goo off her cheeks. “Of course,” she whispers, still with tears in her eyes, and it's at that point that I really just want to give her a hug. All I do is say “thank you” and run my fingers across my necklace. (It's no longer just my mother's now. It's my mother's and Dinah's.)

It's 6 AM.
I find Marlon in his usual spot in the town square. When he sees me, he asks if I'm still up or already up, and I say “still”. He takes my hand and says “already,” and I ask him if we can go to the bridge. We lean against the railing once again, and that's when I tell him what Dinah had told me. With every word that comes out of my mouth I just want to cry more and more, as if saying the words just makes it more real. As if keeping my mouth shut would somehow make this all just a nightmare and all I have to do is fall off the bridge and drown, and then I'd wake up and return to my goldfish life. But no, this is real. Marlon takes a deep breath after I've finished speaking, and that's when he wraps both of his arms around me and pulls me into him. “I'm so sorry,” he whispers into my hair. “I'm so fucking sorry.” It's then, with my face smushed into his chest, that I finally allow myself to cry, and it's under tears that I mumble “stop saying that word”. Because it was my fault all along. “Fuck?” Marlon asks, and I say “no, sorry”. It was my fault all along. We stay like that for a while, with me crying into his sweater, and I think Marlon is crying too but I don't want to look up.
After a while, the church bell tolls seven, and by that time I already feel like I can't cry anymore even if I wanted to. I remove my face from Marlon's chest, and we both turn to lean onto the railing once again. “You see any fish?” “Marlon, there aren't any fishes in this water.”