Bleeding Fish

It’s dark. I’m scared.
The blood drips from the knife.
The sweat beads roll
down the bridge of my nose.
It’s dead. But still moves.
The flesh on my hands
is cool and now defunct.
I hated it the first, second, and third time.
What would possess you to think
this time would be any different?
Exposure and new experiences…
Next month I turn 12;
so, this must be my rite of passage.
“Quit stalling,” he croaks.
My choices:
slit its throat, cut through the artery, or slice its organs.
“How about lethal injection?” I murmur,
and reluctantly carve through layers of cold tissue.
The blood rains lightly into the water,
mixes with the gray matter under my fingernails,
and spatters on my faded plaid shirt,
with the missing gold button and tiny moth hole
above the left sleeve.
Bloodless and lifeless, the thought of eating
repulses me. But what repulses me even more
are the words, “Now lets get ready to gut it.”