Fungal Halo

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I Remember My Childhood Comforts

I haven’t seen the ocean in so long. I barely remember it any more. I barely remember myself.

I grew up there, you know? I miss having access to fresh seafood everywhere.

Out here, in the middle of the continent, it all tastes lifeless, somehow. Definitely missing something.

For all that I miss the waves, the smell of salt, the swimming, somehow I remember so little of the specifics.

I could never forget the food, though. There’s something about the way food clings so tightly to memory, isn’t there?

Sometimes I think if I could eat a meal like I used to enjoy back home—something I caught fresh myself—all those memories would bloom fresh in my mind again, and I would remember just how it used to be.

I wish I knew why he never wants to take a trip to the coast with me.

He barely acknowledges me when he returns home from work.

Why did I ever marry him? Did I even? I barely remember. I have this ring, though.

It feels a lifetime ago he whisked me away to our home here. I don’t think I’ve ever taken it off. It would make him sad if I did.

The next day, I take the ring off.

I spend the day relaxing. I neglect my household duties, lounging on the sofa and trying to remember the taste of my favorite meals from back home.

I sing to myself songs that remind me of the past. I can’t remember the last time I sang. I really think I was happier then.

I stab him in the belly when he comes home. I don’t know why. Some distant instinct I choose to listen to, I guess.

That same instinct invites me to take a deep bite before he bleeds out completely. I do.

He tastes like home. One bite and I’m back where I belong, swimming with my sisters in the deep sea, ripping fishermen to shreds for food and for sport.

He robbed me of my life, but as I feast on him, I take it all back.

I am free of him. I will find my way home again.