And like the trivial yank of a chain, flush, the fish now dead to her, like it meant nothing to her.
You’re spinning now, around, and around, aimlessly within the basin of the toilet. You look up, to see her one last time, but she’s already gone, she’s at the pet store now, replacing you.
And you come out the other end, a life without her. But you’re out of water now, left gasping for air, jump, jump, but now you jump no more, slowly gasping now, then gasping less and less as the realisation settles in on top of where your dwindled hope last stood, she’s gone, she has actually gone this time, and she isn’t coming back.
You gasp your last gasp, but what’s the point? You let go now. Your glazed eyes staring ahead but not focused on a thing, for her face you can’t see now, you see nothing now, for nothing now is there.