sheepydwagon

They often say we're born with the weight of the world on our shoulders.

Ever since I was four or five years old, I've wondered who exactly "they" are, and where I can find them. I have questions, and I need answers. I need to sit them down and have a long talk with them. I need to know why they gave me a fish of all creatures.

It's not that I hate Geoffrey (that's what I named him), but I wish he wasn't so… wet. Or slimy. Or smelly. Generally, I wish he was a fish with very non-fishy characteristics. Or, better yet, I wish he was a fishstick, one that I could take off, eat, and be done with, rather than a live fish that's permanently fused to my skull.

I'm sorry, Geoffrey, I didn't mean that. I could never eat you. It's not because I would die either, I just wish the people at school would call me something other than “Moist Molly” for once in my life. It's not even a creative nickname. I know I'm wet all the time. I have to be. Thankfully, I don't have to wear a fishbowl on my head or anything, but Geoffrey does dry out easily, so I have to keep him hydrated. Every two hours or so, depending on the humidity, I have to go to the bathroom, carefully lean over the sink, and pour some water on him. He always flops around happily, gently slapping his tail against the back of my head and opening and closing his mouth. My light hair always starts to stick together and look like limp spaghetti, but at least then he seems happy, as happy as a fish fused sideways on a birds nest of blond can look anyway. The rest of the time, he just lays on my head idly, wide-eyed with mouth agape, looking like he's never had a thought in his life.

I guess I could have it worse.

I've heard stories of kids being born with horses on their heads -- horses twice the size of them. Sometimes they're attached to the back of their horse's neck, so once their horse has grown enough, the kid can ride them and function fairly normally. Other times they're attached to their horse's belly, so the kid can do nothing but be dragged along and hope their horse never lays down.

I've heard other stories about people born with a bee on their head. It sounds great having something so small that it barely affects you, but apparently the constant buzzing can drive you insane. Literally. Some people, not just those with bees, but a lot of those with insects, eventually try and kill their creature because of the constant, incessant noise. Or, even more tragically, they end up killing their creature by accident. Imagine bumping your head on something, and you just up and die.

That happened to one of my friends when I was younger. She was born with a butterfly. Well, she was born with a caterpillar, and that caterpillar would eventually become a butterfly, since our creatures grow alongside us. We were in middle school, and it had just started to pupate. We were playing outside at recess when a stray soccer ball flew right into her head and crushed her chrysalis. We didn't even realize what had happened until she fell down and wouldn't get back up. It was an accident, so the guy didn't get arrested or anything, but he ended up transferring schools soon after.

I think there was a debate following that incident about whether or not kids with fragile creatures should be put in different schools for their own safety, but I don't think it ever went anywhere. We have to live with what we've got out in the real world.

No one knows how it's decided what creatures we're born with. Scientists have studied it for years, but they haven't even found any kind of genetic component. Some religious scholars claim that the gods look down upon you in the womb and choose a creature that will challenge you in life. Other religious groups say that the gods just choose a creature at random, so it's the luck of the draw, and you have to deal with it.

To me, it seems like the rich usually get better creatures. For example, there's a famous family on TV that somehow all have different birds of paradise. They always wear bizarre, gaudy outfits to match the striking colors and plumage of their creatures, and they strut around sipping champagne and complaining about petty issues.

How all of them even got such rare birds like that, I'm not sure. It's not as if you can alter your genetics or have some kind of surgery to attach a different animal to your head. It just means you're lucky, or the gods favor you, or maybe both. But, if the gods are challenging us, how are those celebrities being challenged? They were born into wealth, and their creatures only help them get wealthier. It's not as if they're struggling.

Why does someone else get to have a beautiful, dry creature when I'm stuck with a smelly, wet fish? It just doesn't feel fair.

Even the popular kids at my school have cooler creatures. There's this one girl named Caitlyn, who was born with a rare red panda on her head. The way it's fused, it's laying belly-down with its paws placed evenly against her forehead, and it looks so cute. She always wears some shade of red or orange to match it, and other girls flock to her every day trying to gain a crumb of her esteem.

I don't even bother trying to get popular or even look good. No one takes me seriously because of him, and the way Geoffrey is fused to my head, he's at an angle and slightly off center. I can never get him to look good, and even if I did, watering him would mess it up completely.

Sometimes I dream that Geoffrey isn't on my head anymore. It's always the same dream - I'll reach for the top of my head to try and tame the hair around him with my fingers, but he'll be gone. My hair will be neat and dry, there won't be a bald spot just before my skin turns into his scales, and my fingers will slip through it with ease. Then, when I look around, thinking he's fallen off or something, I'll see him. Geoffrey will have grown legs and squatted down next to a small stream, washing his face. I'll sit next to him. In a slow, deep voice, he'll impart on me some profound knowledge that I can never remember upon waking up.

I've always wondered if somehow it really is him following me into my dreams or if they are just that, dreams. They're so bizarre but they always feel so real in the moment. It feels like I'm there, talking to another person... well, fish.

If I ever meet "them" from the saying, I want to ask if our creatures dream with us. I don't think I've ever heard of anyone being able to communicate directly with their creature like that - they are just animals after all, even if they're attached to our bodies. It seems like something that I definitely would've heard of if it was more common, but maybe everyone is just too embarrassed to ask about it, like I am. Our creatures even not being on our heads is a weird and uncomfortable thought for most, so imagine me saying mine had sprouted legs and run off.

They would think I'm insane. My parents might even try and have me sent somewhere for counseling, worrying I'll try and cut Geoffrey off or something.

I can see it now - my mom's gentle cat letting out a low “murr” as she paces between her bedroom and the bathroom. My dad would be held up in the doorway, his turtle in its shell as his brow furrows. He would glance at me and Geoffrey out of the corner of his eye, trying desperately to understand where exactly he went wrong. I would try and reassure them it was just a dream I had, that it wasn't real, and that I had no intention of doing anything. They would look at me and listen, but say nothing. Eventually I would trail off halfway through a sentence as the tension grew. It wouldn't matter what I said after that, they wouldn't believe me.

Ever since I tried to get Geoffrey off once at recess in 3rd grade, they always think I'm lying.

I didn't even really know what I was doing. It was just so hot and humid that no one would get near me because of Geoffrey's smell, not even my P.E. teacher. He told me to go into the locker rooms and relax, since he claimed he was worried about Geoffrey in the heat. I knew he just wanted me gone. I went into one of the stalls in the girl's locker rooms and cried for half the class. I heard my teacher outside saying they were going to do one more game, and I grabbed Geoffrey's tail. I pulled as hard as I could, trying to get him off so I could play too. I felt his muscles clench and his bones start to pop as he tried to fight against me. Sometime during all that, I guess I started screaming, since my teacher ran in and started prying Geoffrey from my hands.

Next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed, and my parents whispered sharply to each other at my bedside. They demanded to know why I had done that. All I could get myself to say was that I didn't know, but that didn't satisfy them. My dad had grabbed my shoulder and squeezed so tight I thought he was going to crush me. He asked me if I wanted to die. I told him no. I told him he was hurting me. He said that he was sorry, that he didn't realize, and let go. All the while, my mom watched silently.

Since then, I don't tell them about anything that happens at school, not that they ask. Nothing usually happens anyway, aside from mean names here and there. I let them see my grades, which are good, and that seems to make them happy. We go out for dinner and to the movies sometimes, and I don't hate them or anything. It's just the same as Geoffrey - I wish they could've been something else.