Just a girl in an unjust world, Lottie thought, as she sat down on the sofa beside Pamela who was painting her toenails a rather odd shade of pink. Lottie watched Pamela lash at her nails with the tiny pointed brush, making small strokes of colour on the keratin canvas; bobbing her head to the left every so often to check her progress from another angle. Pamela often painted her nails, both fingers and toes, when she was stoned. Lottie looked down at her own toes, still wet from the shower, and wondered whether she should paint them too, but decided they were ugly and that painting them would only attract attention to that. She had splayed toes and some sort of fungus between the littlest two. She pulled at one of the thick curly black hairs on her big toe’s knuckle, making it straight and then letting it curl back again. Lottie hated being stoned; it made her feel gross and anxious. She refastened the towel covering her from breast to bottom and wondered whether it was too soon for another shower.
‘I’m worried about the Grim Reaper’s state of mind,’ Pamela said, without looking up from her toes. ‘I think he may be suicidal.’
For a second Lottie was lost. ‘But, the Grim Reaper’s a fish.’ She jiggled a little on her side of the sofa and took the spliff from Pamela’s outstretched hand. She took a shallow puff and held it in for a moment before releasing a pale cloud of smoke.
‘Yes, a suicidal fish,’ Pamela said. ‘When I came home the other day, and good thing I did when I did, I found him on the floor, just like flapping around. I had to pick him up and put him back in the tank. Not for the first time, either.’ She lifted one foot from the edge of the coffee table, stretched it out in front of her and leaned it left, then right, before replacing it on the edge of the table. The nail polish was glossy and shined in the overhead light. ‘You gonna pass that round or what?’
Lottie passed the spliff to Pamela who put it between her lips and took several short puffs as she started working on her other foot. She motioned for Lottie to take the spliff. Lottie shook her head. She stood and went over to the Grim Reaper’s tank. The tank was rectangular and sat atop a small dilapidated coffer in the corner of the room. The coffer was a faded baby-blue colour. Lottie knelt down beside the tank and watched the goldfish scoot through the clear, clean water. The tank’s purifier burped, sending bubbles up that broke the surface. The Grim Reaper looked fine, she thought, as it moved around the tank’s ornaments. She tried to make eye contact but couldn’t.
‘He’s depressed,’ Pamela said, dropping the spliff into the pāua-shell ashtray on the coffee table.
‘Depressed? I’m not dolling out for a fish therapist.’ Lottie tapped the tank’s glass. ‘Can a fish even be depressed, like are they neurologically capable of it?’
‘Sure,’ Pamela said. ‘Anything can get depressed. Why do you think rocks are so lethargic all the time?’ She placed a pair of foam separators between her toes. ‘I have something that might help, though.’ She walked across the room on the heels of her feet, her toes pointed upwards, and began to search through her purse. Lottie tapped the glass again.
The air was hazy from the spliff. The smell of nail polish was strong. Lottie considered cracking a window but worried the smell of spliff might get out to the street. It was early and still light out; people were walking past, moving between dorms. The TV across from the sofa was playing infomercials, trying to sell stuff. Atop it sat a dead lilac.
‘I’ve had these for ages,’ Pamela said, holding out her hand, showing Lottie two green-and-yellow capsules. Lottie looked up, scrunching her face. ‘It’s Zoloft – it’s for depression. We’ll sprinkle some in his tank and he’ll feel better in no time. Trust me, I’m a doctor.’
‘You’re a first-year psych major,’ Lottie said. She pressed her face against the glass, opening her eyes wide, hoping the Grim Reaper would meet her gaze. ‘You really think he needs them?’
‘Look at him. He’s withdrawn, meek, not responding to external stimuli – all the classic signs.’
‘He does look rather glum.’
Pamela pulled apart the capsules and let the tiny white beads fall into the water. They watched the beads dissolve and rain down like snow into the tank’s depths, making the water murky.
‘It won’t kill him will it?’
‘No faster than he’d kill himself,’ Pamela said, sprinkling fish food into the tank. The Grim Reaper swam towards the surface and ate the flakes of food.
Pamela returned to the sofa. She lit a cigarette and propped her feet back up on the edge of the coffee table. The purifier burped.
‘How long will it take to work?’
‘If he isn’t better in a week, we’ll up the dose.’
Lottie watched the Grim Reaper for a while before returning to the sofa. She picked up the remote and started flicking through the TV channels. She stopped on a Cheers rerun just as the laugh track played and wondered how many of the people laughing were now dead. The thought made her giggle; then she felt bad about it. She pulled at a loose thread on her towel’s hem and wrapped it tight around her pinkie.
‘Still wanna go to The Foundry?’ Pamela asked, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. Having finished her toes, she took a file to her fingernails.
‘Are you meeting Eddie there?’
‘Nah, I broke up with him.’
‘Last night?’
‘No, I changed my relationship status on Facebook this morning. Hopefully, he gets the hint.’
Lottie watched as Pamela started painting her fingernails to match her toenails. She started with her pinkie and then moved to her ring finger and onwards towards the thumb. She did it with care, patience and precision. The tip of her tongue stuck out a little at the corner of her mouth. Lottie didn’t even want to think about painting her fingernails, which were well bitten and had hangnails galore.
Lottie watched for a while and then went to check on the Grim Reaper. The Grim Reaper was swimming in irregular circles near the bottom of the tank. Bits of fish food sat uneaten near the surface, and the water looked dirty. Lottie put her hand against the glass, let it slide down a little and sighed. ‘He seems worse, Pam.’
‘He’ll be fine, Lottie. He’s just a fish.’
The Grim Reaper swam in circles above the coloured quartz and glass beads at the bottom of the tank. A nearby statue of a scuba diver waved out; a Day-Glo castle sat unoccupied in the corner. Lottie took the small plastic fish scoop from beside the tank and brought the Grim Reaper out of the water. The fish made a few attempts to move then went still. She tried again to make eye contact but got nothing from the fish’s beady black eyes. She gave a small soft kiss to the Grim Reaper’s scaled side before placing him back in the water.
Lottie went to her room. She draped her towel over the door, put on some clean underwear and found a pair of stockings that had no rips or ladders. She took a pinafore from the laundry basket, gave it a sniff and, thinking it smelled all right, put it on. She gave herself a quick look-over in the full-length mirror. Then she put on her brogues, tied the laces tight and grabbed her coat off her desk chair.
When she returned to the lounge, Pamela had finished her nails and was shaking her wrist to dry them. ‘Should we go?’ Lottie asked.
Pamela nodded. She put on her Chucks as Lottie turned off the TV.
Outside, the autumn air was thin and sharp, each gust felt like a paper cut. Pamela, a few steps ahead of Lottie, was on her cell phone, sending text messages. Fallen leaves littered the asphalt of Homestead Lane. Lottie stepped on each leaf she passed, wanting to hear the satisfying crunch they made.
To Lottie, The Foundry looked like a barn. All corrugated iron, bleak and sterile. It looked more like an extension of the university’s carpark than a reason for it. Lottie and Pamela entered and found a place to sit. The bar stools and tables were high.
‘These seats always make me feel small,’ Lottie said, ‘like I’ve shrunk somewhere between the door and here.’
‘Sounds like a Lilliputian hallucination.’
‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I refuse to take your diagnoses seriously until you’ve at least passed second year. You’ve already put my goldfish on medication.’
Pamela left to get drinks – gin and tonics to start. Sitting at the table alone, Lottie felt watched, studied and scrutinised. She thought in circles. From over at the pool tables, some guy wearing a UC sweater and beige khakis gave her a seedy look before missing a shot. At the bar, Pamela was talking to a hipster with a topknot and weedy moustache. She leaned in close to him and placed a hand on his forearm. Anything for a free drink, Lottie thought then winced. She wanted to leave already.
‘I can’t stop thinking about the Grim Reaper,’ Lottie said as Pamela returned to their table.
Pamela took two quick sips of her drink as she started to scan the room. ‘Huh?’ she said, after a while.
‘What if he tries again, you know? What if he jumps out of the tank while we’re here and dies on the carpet? I can’t even remember the last time we vacuumed.’
Pamela gave her a sour look, ‘I’m sure he’s fine. The pill should’ve kicked in and made him mellow by now.’ She turned back to scanning the bar. She saw someone from her Psychology tutorial and called him over. ‘Duncan, Lottie. Lottie, Duncan,’ she said while gesturing, her nails catching light and glistening.
‘How ya doing on the assignment, Pam?’ Duncan asked, taking a seat. He had short curly hair and a smile that could sell stuff. He fidgeted with his drink, rotating the glass atop the table, before taking a sip. He smelled good, Lottie thought, like frozen berries.
‘Haven’t even started,’ Pamela said.
‘It’s due soon,’ said Duncan. ‘Maybe I could help ya?’
Pamela gave him a smile and nodded. She could wrap anyone around her finger, Lottie thought. She watched the two of them share a long look.
Lottie finished her drink. She said she needed to pee, even though she didn’t. Neither Pamela nor Duncan paid much mind as Lottie left the table and exited the bar. Outside, she cinched her coat and headed home.
This time, walking along Homestead Lane, Lottie didn’t step on a single leaf. Yet, she did note the trail of destruction she’d left earlier. The leaves’ skeletal remains scattered across the sidewalk made her feel gloomy and remorseful. They’re just leaves, she thought, almost aloud, as she crossed the lane to Ilam Apartments. Still, she couldn’t shake the guilt.
A party had started on the ground floor. Drum and bass music reverberated through the building. At the bottom of the stairs, two first-years were dry humping. Beside them a knocked over bottle of wine was making a puddle. Lottie squeezed past with a sigh. She took the steps two at a time. She could hear people shouting, having fun. The music was loud and repetitive. She felt a headache coming on.
The room still smelled of spliff and nail polish. Lottie flicked on the light. She let out a sigh as she crossed the room and headed towards the Grim Reaper’s tank. It didn’t look good, even from the door. She could see the Grim Reaper bobbing at the water’s surface, like some sort of flotsam or jetsam. He didn’t look real; he looked plastic or rubber, the hollow eyes, the limp tail curled inwards, like a child’s toy left alone.
She knelt down beside the tank and watched the dead fish float, watched it skirting along the side of the tank. Fish food and remnants of the pill littered the water. The ornaments looked the same. With the fish scoop, she extracted the Grim Reaper’s corpse from the tank and carried it to the bathroom.
She held the fish scoop above the toilet bowl then rotated it until she heard the plonk. She didn’t want to look and see the Grim Reaper afloat in the toilet’s water, but she couldn’t help herself. The music downstairs continued. Her head ached. She pushed the flusher. The water turned, spiralled downwards, taking the Grim Reaper with it.