Fishbowl

As always, the alarm struck me awake so fast that my stomach felt sick. I swung my legs heavily off the side of the bed and sat there for a minute with my head in my hands, my gross, sleepy-bed-head hair falling in thick strands around my fingers.1

A few minutes later I headed downstairs to shower. On the way I switched on the fish tank light, startling the little red betta from a lazy little bob on the gravel to a flash of fins. I watched him race up and down the glass wall staring at his own vivid reflection, flaring his gills and snapping his pug dog-like jaw. How pointless - He wakes up in the morning to do nothing but watch his fins billow in the water, watching how beautifully intimidating he'd be to some poor smaller fish, should he ever get the chance to compare.2

After my shower I wrapped myself in a towel to go back upstairs and get dressed. I finally settled on an outfit by seven and my mom was yelling that I had to get going, but I still hadn't done my makeup. In a rush I grabbed eyeliner from on top of the dresser and nudged my face up, inches from the mirror, turning my head from side to side and raising my chin to make sure everything was perfect. Once the gills along my jawbone shimmered a deep red as they swung back and forth and my fins spread out behind me like a cape, dazzling pin-pricks bouncing off glassy smooth scales, I made my way downstairs.