SOO HWAN KIM

Short Story

It was three years and sixty-three days since a dragon wrecked my house, and it was getting harder to remain grateful for the opportunity to remodel. Mainly because I couldn’t. It wasn’t all bad, though. After all, it was nice to have purpose again, even if it was murder, but the problems came a few seconds after stabbing it repeatedly in a fit of vengeance for my indoor lawn chairs. It came as I was wiping down my murder stick, with the hum of a helicopter, and the wax-sealed news that I had become a hero. And like any good hero at the end of their journey, I soon came to the understanding that the title became a job.

 

            A job that, I realised, with the telltale bing of my heroic phone echoing through the moldering apartment, I was now late to, for a third time this week. Sighing, I tipped the rest of my hero’s corn flakes into my mouth. Like a good hero, I had to make sure my people didn’t starve, and unfortunately, that population was down to me and my landlord.

 

            The problem with houses, I wagered, putting the key in the ignition, besides their general lack of affordability, was how homey they got. People had a tendency, much like work, to fill in whatever space there was left with their personal brand of time-eating whimsy. Anything to distract them long enough, keep the dragon out of sight and mind (or at the very least, convince themselves it wasn’t that big), until they couldn’t. I started backing out, carefully ignoring the multiple red lights flashing on my dashboard. You started with two empty bedrooms, just enough baggage to fill one for a therapist, and a crippling amount of debt. Two months later, you were left with no bedrooms, a growing Amazon-dot-com of twice-used things, and an even larger pile of IOU. Your space defined your bounds, how much you could have, and by extension, how much you had to have. The garage door started rolling open. Even if you went the other way, and turned your house into an asylum, the weight of that thought remained, much the way how any rebellion inevitably orbited the ideological gravity of whatever it was rebelling against. Whether you liked it or not, you became your space, and your space became you, much like how a goldfish in a bowl wouldn’t be complete without its goldfish and its bowl. The car stopped moving.

 

            Ah, beans.

 

            I turned the engine off, other hand grabbing at the duffel bag in the shotgun seat. Out the car, I took one running step before I had to assess my current outfit, consisting entirely of an oversized sweater over an undersized cocktail dress. I promptly ignored said assessment, instead choosing to grab my spear and trip two steps away from the car. The benefits of my choice was that I could now run freely. The downside was now I didn’t want to.

 

            I got up, carefully ignoring the massive tear in the now avant-garde garment, while simultaneously prying my murder stick free of several new openings in said garment. There was an art to ignoring your problems, and I was its Picasso. Or a goldfish, I guess. Finally done, I fished at my pockets. I fished at my other pockets. I put my hand inside my sweater’s existent pocket and found my phone, accompanied by several new cracks. I carefully ignored those too, and started a call. Today was not a good day to be a goldfish.

 

            Killing dragons was a noble art, and one ill-suited to be performed by vehicular manslaughter, mainly due to a car’s inability to fly. Unfortunately for the dragon, such narrow-mindedness flew in the face of someone who chose the name Calamity Smith, and so my co-worker did. Three minutes after a ten-second call, they arrived, a cream-coloured omen wielding a coarse suburban car. I opened the shotgun seat, ignoring the gravel inside by counting my blessings. Since they were few and far between, I silently wished for a few more. Those delusions were dismissed just as quickly as any semblance of road safety.

 

            “So, what happens when the bowl breaks?” Their eyes were trained on the road, with both hands on the wheel, but their tone was unfortunately curious.

 

“What?”

 

            “The fishbowl thing. You know, from last time. I’ve been thinking about it.”

 

“Ah.” I pursed my lips.

 

            “Yeah, that’s a letter. What’s the next one?”

 

            “‘B’ for beware-of-pedestrians. Anyway. In that metaphor, the goldfish dies, the owner gets sad, and another one the next day. Seeing how none of us are dead yet,” I glanced over. “PHYSICALLY.” Their eyebrows drop back down. I continue. “Since none of us are dead yet, that means that our owner’s either dead, or doing a very bad job at godding.”

 

            “Or you’re going too far up your ass,” they countered.

 

“Fair.”

 

            “I’ve another question, too. Why do we need the glass?

 

“I … don’t know.”

 

            We drove the rest of the way in silence.

 

            The car puttered smoothly to a stop, on my parking space. Too tired to bicker, I waved Smith off as I gathered my gear, and a reason to live. Finding none, I cheerlessly squelched through the back entrance of the Dragonslaying Academy, spear in hand, and a handful of dress in the other. Contrary to the polished exterior, the employee-facing side of the Academy was filled with the hallmark neglect of a workplace with a moderately exploited workforce. Spear in mouth, I took out my phone, jammed it against the wall-mounted scanner. I attempted to enter the changing room, before my teeth sent a push notification to the rest of my body. Much like an abusive relationship, I griped, massaging my jaw, the job offered a family and a home, so long as you toed the line. Since I didn’t fancy losing another one of those, I redoubled my efforts, changing out of what used to be my marketable side in just five-plus-two minutes. I was a very good hero. And twenty-three minutes late.

 

            I looked myself up and down one final time, burnished armour never worn to battle, perfectly polished in all the ways that never mattered. Perfect. I was the model novelty, on my way to sell an illusion of security to people rich enough to never have it challenged. Good spearwork might occasionally triumph against big scary nightmare lizards, but forcefields, and an easier target always did. I tightened the waist straps further. They probably knew that though. The thing they never seemed to grasp was by the time a spear was in their hands, their house would be on fire, and their family would be dead.

 

            I picked up my spear, rubber tip replacing the usual steel. Kid-friendly. Who knows, I muttered, clanking neatly down the stairs, each step a dinner bell for any dragon within three minutes’ flying distance. Maybe they wanted to be a hero. Maybe they wanted to renovate.

 

            I quickly clanked past reception, waving past Smith, and composed myself before the class door. Problems for later. Right now, my people needed me, and he needed me with two thousand dollars more by the end of the month. I kicked the door open, helmet in hand, smile in mouth. Several faces returned a glassy-eyed greeting, all of them unfortunately familiar, before they returned to drilling yet another offensive manoeuvre. I started on those closest to the door, correcting form I had never used. I wondered if they were ever taught how to control a fire.  

 

            At the end, I stood alone, facing the wall opposite the door, the fleet of too-thin steel and mumbled thanks long since out the door. They probably felt like heroes, knowing all the best ways to stab something dead. Good for them. A pair of footsteps started outside, abruptly losing whimsy a few seconds after the door creaked open. I felt a presence behind my shoulder. And under it too, I supposed, turning to face Smith.

 

“Figured anything out?”

 

            “Nothing new.”

 

“Want to talk about it?”

 

                        “No.”

 

They paused, chewing their lip. Thinking. They put their thumb in their pocket as they asked, “You got dinner plans?”

 

            “Cornflakes.” I turned, brushing past them, heading back to collect what was mine, and more importantly, to get this stupid costume off. “Same as always. A real hero’s feast. Want to join?”

 

            I noticed a distinct lack of footsteps behind me. Whoopsies.

 

            I expected more understanding from someone who was within my pay grade. That didn’t happen, but at least it was funny to witness Calamity on the receiving end of mental whiplash for once. A yee-haw mix of genuine concern and equally genuine consternation played a vicious tug of war around their brow as they looked at me, struggling to choose a look between pity and outrage. In the end, anger won, the umbrage of having to play the straight-man too much for them. They clomped past me, a visibly withered look on their face. “You’re not having fucking cornflakes,” they spat, gesturing for me to follow. I did. As expected of someone who was neither, they were not handling it very well.

 

            I should’ve chosen the cornflakes. Hunched over a cutting board on an inflatable futon, I was paired with Schrodinger’s latest superposition between rice cooker and domestic terrorism charge, passing the goal of ruining a sushi dinner with flying colours. Colours which, I noted, eyes sweeping their stark white bedroom, this place desperately needed. Small wonder why they were like that. They lived in an asylum. Giving up, I scrunched my pile of sins into a singular ball, and dunked it into the shared bowl of soy sauce precariously balanced on said cutting board, carefully ignoring the frown emanating from the top of the futon. It tasted better this way. It also started to quickly fall apart in my hands.

 

            “You could just-”

 

            “Shush.”

 

            “I- okay.”

 

            We continued eating in silence. Finishing my mistake, I licked my hands clean, carefully ignoring the heavy breaths of judgement looming slightly above me, by focusing on the reassuring aura of the bomb to my left.

 

            “Nice place you have.”

 

            “There is something deeply wrong with you.”

 

            “Thanks, you too.”  

 

            “Guilty as charged. Please get help.”

 

            “Sure. I’ll get you furniture, and you get me a psychiatrist. When we can both afford one, we’ll swap, and become normal again.”

 

            “Ha.”

 

            I reached over, grabbing at another sheet of seaweed. Calamity knocked it out of my hands, taking it for themself, muttering dourly. They shoved a finished roll into my hands, as I watched them quickly create another. I took a bite. Then another. It was pretty good, all things considered.

 

            “Thanks,” I mumbled through a mouthful of rice.

 

            “Save it for when you’re done. Think of an answer while you’re at it too.”

 

            “The what?”

 

            “Fishbowl. Why do we need it?”

 

            I chewed. All homes needed a boundary. To keep the safe in, and the unsafe out, you needed something to keep things out. Without one … well, you were just unsafe. I swallowed.

 

            “To … keep stuff out? All the bad stuff, like dragons, and shit.” I took another bite. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. “At some point, you gotta draw the line. Good stuff in, bad stuff out. You know?”

 

            They thought for a moment. “Have you ever seen a happy goldfish?”

 

            “Huh?”

 

            “Like, one that actually looked happy in its little bubble. Content with what’s inside.”

 

            I dunked the last part of the sushi into the bowl. It skittered to the side, almost spilling. I caught it in time, set it back on the board. I chewed my lip.

 

            “I mean, do fish really feel anythi-”

 

            “You’re not a fish, dumbass.” They leaned forward, pushing the bowl further in. I could feel a slight tremor under the floorboards. I shifted my weight further forward, feet ready to move. Just in case. They continued. “In case you didn’t realise, you’re a person. You killed a dragon. You’re far too big for a fucking fishbowl.”

 

            “If you’re asking me out right now, I’m-”

 

            “No, you idiot.” They glanced up. “Look, I’m going to be blunt. I don’t know what it was, or what your life looked like before a dragon blew it into glass, but you don’t belong there anymore. It sucks, but sometimes you need to break whatever’s left, to have anything at all. You know why there aren’t any happy goldfish? Because you can’t live in any home you can’t leave. It’s hell. And as obvious as it is, the second part of being a hero is to get the hell out. So if that means anything,” they reached out a hand, “you’re going to take a breath,

 

            And jump.”  

 

            And with that, the ceiling gave way to eyes the colour of hell. Cursing, I jumped to my feet, spear at the ready. Calamity was down, one hand clutching their shoulder, other hand readying a revolver. I moved, legs quickly clearing up and through the roof, ignoring the dying tears shed by my dress as the dragon leaned back, mouth full of fire. No time to waste.

 

My people needed me, after all.

END