Forfeiture
By Meggie Royer
The catfish put up a fight when Elyse dragged them from the river, their dripping barbels quivering like arrows. She would rub their slick bodies with vinegar and salt when she returned home, their muddy smell dissipating in the acid. The wind whipped her face with chords of cold as she tied the boat to the dock, double lashing like her father had taught her.
Sometimes all catfish needed was a buttermilk soak and cornmeal, or lemon and black pepper. There were ways to do things, and ways to do them better. The fish bumped along her back in their satchel as she took the long way home, savoring the frost tipping the trees, knowing her cheeks would be red and welted at the end. She was allergic to cold, which sounded like a fabricated condition, but could be treated with epinephrine in severe cases.
The cabin was quiet, its silence a kind of sound, the yellow dish towels that Elyse had hung from the window the only obvious color among her surroundings. She skinned and gutted the fish, cleaned them, then sliced and dredged them.
They were better than she had anticipated, possibly even her favorite so far.
She saved some for the man, wrapped in parchment paper, grease soaking through the sides. His whiskers were cold and sharp against her palm, his hunger ravenous. She felt the man’s hope rise like a bird. She turned away, then climbed the ladder and locked the trap door.
Her father had taught her this, too.
Outside, a red moon began to swell against the windows. She looked in the mirror. The welts were rough and coarse, but they softened beneath her fingers, like a wild thing so easily tamed.
THE END
Author Bio: Meggie Royer (she/her) is a Midwestern writer and the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of Persephone’s Daughters, a journal for abuse survivors. She has won numerous awards and has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. She thinks there is nothing better in this world than a finished poem. Her work can be found at https://meggieroyer.com/.