The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (the two towers ebook .TXT) 📗

back room. My eyes light up at the selection. Small brittle stars, dozens of Asterina stars, all lovely… yet not quite right. Finally, I choose an American one, an ochre star, all the way from California, a beautiful, enticing, orange. I've always wanted to visit there.

After he carefully places the starfish in my goldfish bowl, filled halfway with water from the original tank, money leaves my hand, and he kisses me boisterously on both cheeks before I leave.

On my way home, an unsettling thought comes into my head. I am troubled that the starfish may not like its new brother. My palms sweat as I watch the two starfish creeping on either side of the tank. I won't be able to sleep until I know they have adjusted to each other.

My starfish has taken to its companion. After eight hours of worried watching, I've found its fattest arm slung over the other, like an arm over the back of a long-lost friend. Finally, I go to bed relieved.

In the morning, the California starfish has disappeared, as though it had dissolved in the tank's water. I refuse to believe my starfish has consumed it.

Sadly, my starfish looks sick. I pet and comfort it, and speak of old times. Its color has turned from a rich dusky purple to a pale, washed-out pink with ominous white patches speckling its body. I scoop up the starfish into a transportation goldfish bowl filled with tank water and hurry to the vet. The vet has practiced for twenty-two years but has never seen a case like mine. He shrugs and says it lies beyond his expertise. He suggests I purchase another one. I visit two other vets and they also tell me it’s beyond their expertise. I won’t give up hope.

I hand-feed my starfish, holding a freshly shucked clam close to its limbs. I am patient and I will hold the food until it takes it from me and stuffs it into its stomach extruding from its center. After several hours, the limb reaches out but—horrors!—the arm itself has become possessed. It has pulled, loosened, wiggling back and forth until it has finally detached from the body. The arm, on its own, squirms away in a worm-like wiggle, leaving the rest of the body behind.  Beneath my frightened gaze, like escaping petals from a bloom, one by one, each limb detaches and crawls away. Some meet up and wrestle. Others crouch at the bottom of the tank.

I am heartbroken. I will nurse it in its final days. Meticulously, I research these symptoms. It seems like my starfish has caught a starfish-wasting disease, a virus passed from starfish to starfish, caught from the vanished Californian companion.

With no more limbs, feeding takes forever. I act as its missing limbs, slowly moving food to its extruding stomach in its center. It manages to wave its stumps in gratitude. I love my starfish. Can a starfish love back?

Despite my scrupulous care, my starfish looks listless and lost. Its disembodied arms have lost their spark of life and lie unmoving, curled at the bottom of the tank. I steel myself. I am not ready to mourn my starfish, another loss in a string of losses. But one day, a bud blooms.  One bud blooms from each stump on the body. A miracle!

When it gets better, I will take it on holiday. We will go to the seaside in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, Alpes-Maritime, on a hilltop overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I will feed it scraps of oysters and mussels. I draw up the plans. How will we travel, my starfish and me?

By Tuesday, the arms have slowly grown back. Soon the starfish is determined to crawl around the tank again. I stare at this in fascination. The resiliency and resolve of my little friend.

I am like the starfish, resilient and resolved.  My starfish is well and is looking towards better times. Unfortunately, though, for now, the travel plans are on hold.

I see how long I can watch without blinking. My record time is seven minutes. I stare and stare; all I can do now is stare. My nose itches and I can’t do anything to scratch it. I am more like the starfish than I am to the people outside of my apartment; alas, I'm too much like the starfish. My limbs, all four of them, have detached from me and are crawling to the four corners of the room. My legs and arms have twisted and turned, and it was so terribly painful that I was actually glad to be rid of them. My writhing arms meet up on the carpet and tangle about like snakes. It seems the sickness has passed from starfish to me. I can do nothing; I sit here helpless. I can only hope, that like the starfish, the buds will bloom and one finger, one hand, one arm, one by one, my limbs will regrow.

I am patient and can wait patiently.

Old Times

Mark Towse

Through the window, I watch the taxi as it rolls to a halt. The feeling of helpless spiralling washes over me, and I can feel the knot in my stomach developing.

“I’m off then,” Jacqui says, face caked with make-up, the smell of white musk already laying heavy at the back of my throat. “Do I look okay?” she asks, patting down her dress.

“You look amazing, love.” And she does. All of a sudden, I want to cry, and I hate myself for it.

She gingerly moves through to the hallway, heels impossibly loud against the wooden floor, each step a painful blow to my self-worth. They come to a stop. I know she’ll be checking herself out one last time in the oval mirror.

I think she’s cheating; I’ve suspected for a while. Recently, she’s been leaving the room to use her phone. I’m not proud, but I’ve followed her a few times and observed the frantic button-pushing. I’ve been through