It ended with a fish. The beginning was a sixteen year old girl, armed with books detailing the deaths of pigs and chicken and the health benefits of becoming a vegetarian. It began with a theory of meat addiction and propaganda, chemicals and fat. I was loaded with knowledge and an itchy trigger finger, seated in a plastic chair against a plastic table among my family for dinner. The aroma of meat tickled my nose. The devil called to me, inciting a riot of carnivore instincts my ancestors borrowed from the beasts. My “phase” did not deter my family from ripping into flesh before me. My “phase” did not deter me from being so comfortable amongst death. The horrific words in those noble pages began to dissolve in the covetous saliva of my hunger. The rebel inside that once urged me to throw off the shackles of convention, now tempted me to give in. And I did. As my teeth took hold of the flesh, I stomached through the visions of slaughterhouses and dismembered limbs. The nausea only lasted a moment.
Since then I have only toyed with the idea, knowing my heart would never be in it. I played with classifications like lacto-ova or vegan. The fate of the majestic pigs and baby calves strung up to be stripped to their bones was not enough to stop me. Guilt tugged at my heartstrings but it was not enough. However of all the living creatures, I never had a problem eating fish. With the eyes of a sociopath and the slimy scales of a snake, I had no warm fuzzy feelings for fish. Devoid of souls, I had no issue with the destruction of fish.
A few days ago my mom and I were going to partake in Copper River Salmon, a delicacy of the Northwest. A good cut can be hard to find. She picked it up and I was determined to cook the little monster. I unrolled the package over the pan but as I witnessed the abomination, I screamed and turned away in horror. I had only seen it for a second and yet the image I will carry for a lifetime. A slick, rubbery fin stuck out from the side of the carcass. There was no head, no tail, just a fin. Yet I could not wash the image away. I urged my mom to remove it as I couldn’t even look at it. She did and cooked it as well. When it was done I took my piece, ripping the small pieces of bone and spine from the soulless creature. With each bite, my stomach churned and my heart raced. I choked it down but could not enjoy it. The devil was silent, leaving me alone like a remorseful murderer. Each passing day, each mouthful of meat, the nausea did not go away. All I could see was the fin, black and slimy and the spine peeling away with ease from the body of its former inhabitant. Last night I ate pasta and asparagus, unable to stand the torment. What several library books and painful imagery could not do, a piece of fish did.
