My pet eel, Siggy Freud, taught me the strains of captivity.
I caught him myself and, slogging back through the wet tangled weeds, escorted him home inside my fishing pail. Although I hadn’t intended on welcoming a new pet into my bedroom that morning, I took fondly to the writhing ribbon of muscle. Disregarding his alien features, he somewhat bore resemblance to me. Misunderstood. Lonesome. Mysterious, even.
When I crept through the living room cradling the pail to my chest, my mother hollered, “Aris, that better not be another one of those damn stream serpents,” which was funny considering eels shared little to no biological characteristics with snakes. Mom knew nothing about eels. Reciprocally, she knew nothing about her own son.
She fried my first eel, Jo Schmidtty. Not out of malice, but out of miscommunication. Plopping the pail onto the kitchen counter, I’d asked her to “take care of him” while I rummaged through the basement for a proper vessel to house an eel. Next thing I knew, our kitchen reeked of grease and Jo Schmidtty was no longer in the pail where I left him.
To my horror, I discovered that eels wiggle and squirm even after being chopped and cooked in a skillet. From that moment on, I swore I’d never consume seafood, nor forgive my mother for traumatizing me.
Transferring Siggy Freud from stream to bucket—and later bucket to twenty-gallon tank—triggered the only notable activity I’d ever witness from him. The slimy creature twitched to life in my grip, viciously contorting and coiling around my forearm. Filthy water sloshed onto my bedroom rug. My elbow clipped the dresser and I yowled.
My mother’s footsteps stormed down the hallway. “Aris, what did I tell you about tracking mud into the house?”
I wrestled Siggy Freud into the tank and coughed to cover the splash.
“Nothing,” I blurted. “I mean, uh—sorry.”
I scooted the tank into the corner and draped a towel over the top. That’s how I kept my pet eel a secret, which proved to be easier than expected once I welcomed him into my custody. Since our transitional skirmish, the creature curled among the silt and powered off. At first, I blamed his dormancy on acclimation, but those introductory days have long since passed with no improvement. Weeks without significant movement concerned me.
Mom’s frequent check-ins irritated me more than usual. There were several instances where I figured Siggy Freud and I were busted, but it turned out Mom wanted something from me or felt the need to establish her parental dominance in this household. Had she been patient enough to let me explain myself, I wouldn’t have to hide my eel from her. I actually wished she were on my side so I could ask for advice regarding his health.
Once or twice a week, I tapped a grimy fingernail against the glass. I dropped food into his enclosure—the same worms that once lured him to me—but all it did was turn the water murky. Any time I lifted the towel, Siggy Freud stared back at me with the same doll-like gaze. If only those pathetic pinprick eyes held an ounce of sentience in them so I’d know what he wanted from me.
I pictured myself as a sliver of glass birthed in dense sargassum. Developing among the deep and venturing through freshwater fingers. Defying environmental obstacles only to end up trapped in tanks. Cooked in skillets. Studied in labs.
Imagine if Siggy Freud was human, a kid under strict supervision although rarely understood. Although there technically existed a door to the outdoors, living under this roof was just another version of confinement.
We didn’t belong here. It was time to escape.
Lifting him from his enclosure did not evoke a fight this time around. In fact, his slimy body drooped in my trembling palms. Lifeless. Surrendering to a pointless eternity of imprisonment.
Mom found me blubbering over a clogged toilet. Turns out eels didn’t flush as effortlessly as goldfish. She rested a hand on my back. Although we’d likely never overcome the disconnect of mutual understanding, I welcomed the fleeting comfort of her sympathy.
“Siggy Freud died,” I explained, punctuating with a thick pause holding the weight of what wasn’t spoken aloud: if we are one of the same, what does this mean for me?
Mom had no idea. “Siggy what?”
She peered into the toilet bowl and shrieked.
