Gutted

When I worked at the ice cream shop on the little island on the Yarra, I arrived early one morning to find three young boys catching fish. They cast shabby rods like pros, calmly waiting before hauling in pitiful little flat silver fish.

The fish would flip around on the concrete for a minute before the boy would step on the fish and yank the hook out, ready for another go. The fish was then left on the cold pavement, glaring up at the ceiling and bleeding everywhere, giving an occasional shudder or convulsion. The boys caught one each then called it a day, leaving with their still-breathing fish wrapped up in a newspaper. The blood pooled and spattered and smeared over the ground, so my boss washed it away with a hose.

Right now, I am those fish.