The Sardines

In Borough Market, Esmee chose twelve sardines that would end her life. Naturally she was unaware of this and was terribly pleased with the purchase. On the bus home she envisioned her project, thinking fleetingly that the fish had no smell, wondering if this ensured they were recently deceased, concluding it probably did.

She petted the slimy animals when she got home, felt unproportionately affectionate toward the little sardines. Esmee examined the big deadened eyes. How stupid they looked. How sleek their scales and pointless their lives. She ran a finger along the tiny teeth and tested the flexibility of their jaws.

The following morning she awoke to murmur in the kitchen. All were placed around the kitchen in out-the-door-but-need-breakfast poses, and all fell silent when she entered. She thought it a touch queer but blamed Monday. Everyone took a mumbling farewell and she was left alone, thinking yogurt would be welcome. She opened the fridge door and was taken slightly aback by a funky odour. Like dairy, she thought, but not.

Esmee passed another uneventful day at The Institution, laughing at jokes she neither understood nor cared much about. She tried to integrate, to be amiable and charming and clever at the same time, things she thought she was but no one ever seemed to feel the same way. She was more bored than heartbroken by this fact, her days were dull and the conversations with herself grew longer and more intricate with each day passed in solitude. She wanted a small animal which would love her unconditionally, though it probably would not since she was a terrible nurturer. Things broke and others died, this was her track record, she remembered her fish and thought them a convenient pet. Convenient friends, she thought, and passed the rest of the day occupied with intense self-loathing.

When Esmee came home she heard the flatmates' hushed talk through the wall. Too busy with the social anxiety the day had filled her with, she went to the kitchen and quietly opened a bottle of Tesco‘s finest. She poured a glass and opened the fridge in search of dinner but was instead met with a pungent stench which changed her mind. Someone needs to sort out their dairy, she thought, going back to her room. She found herself sleepless and restless, she counted the days she had not spoken to anyone and stopped when she began to see the picture of her terrible loneliness. Thinking another yogurt would solve things, she ventured out into the hallway, listening intently in case anyone would be there to see her in such an unkempt state. There was again a low murmur through the walls, and she was filled with irrational fear. With a pounding heart she again went to the whirring fridge, only this time she was overcome with an urge to vomit when she opened the door and had the reek engulf her. She decided dairy would be incapable of reaching such depth of repulsiveness, and glancing up at her wet bag of sardines she began to realise. The contents had settled on the bottom, oozed a rank concoction of blood and fishy body juice, the slime seeping through a tear in the side. She stared at the bag. It appeared to stare back at her. Smug and evil.

Her sleep was disturbed by visions of bloody seas and heaving metallic bodies, of pus and gore and deteriorating flesh on impossible structures. Tiny teeth and glossy dead stares.

Esmee awoke feeling ill and tired. She dragged herself into the quiet kitchen and found a polite note concerning her sardines. Realizing she was late she left for the gruelling task of another day The Institution. She had a passing idea to end her life instead but chose the more logical way to spend her day. Within five minutes of being at The Institution she became painfully aware of how small her world had become. The note from the fridge door began to burn in her hand and she broke out in a cold sweat. No one wanted her time and no one acknowledged her existence. She retreated to the bathroom where she spent too long, her mind racing. The failures of her life were quickly brought to the surface, pulled like taut barbed wire back and forth through her brain. The windows of the stall had been painted green and there was a mellow aquatic glow inside. She tried to tell herself green was a calming colour, yes, a calming colour, the colour of harmony and peaceful things, but the panic was too deeply set. She felt she was under water. She read the sweaty mangled note over and over until it was a crude and graphic death threat.

She came home shaking. The stench was now in the hallway and she nearly lost her footing. Her room was dark. She huddled in a corner and wished she had done the monumental task earlier. Surely they must all hate her now. Yes, surely the muffled voices were speaking of her, of her pointless existence, of how completely off she was as a human being. They were! They were speaking of her! She could hear it clearly now, more distinct than ever before, they were without a doubt conspiring against her, planning the murderous intricacy of which they had written in the note. It was true. Of course, what else could they possibly be talking about? Nothing, there was nothing else. The bag, she needed to throw out the bag, she needed to throw out the bag, quick before they came for her. But it was too late. She was certain now. Suddenly she was sure she heard more voices, low and deep, coming from…from all directions! All four walls were being penetrated by the grimmest of plans and threats, the very walls of her head giving way to vicious wicked words. She could hear the scraping of their nails on the door and the window, the mumbles growing into an ominous bloodthirsty chant, the rhythm making the walls vibrate and crack. This was it!

Esmee screamed. Six dripping shapes came through the wall, silver and blood moving in unison with unlikely arms outstretched toward her, the room filling quickly with salty gore and bits of liquid stinking flesh. She was forced into a plastic bag and there she was left to rot.

 

By Danielle Berg

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