As she put the old, time-stained kettle on the stove, her throat swelled shut & another wave of heat filled her where gills should have been.
She had dreams of being a fish.
She never cared to wonder where the dreams came from, they just did.
Like her husband.
The fishwoman never had a certain direction, and always ended up caught in a thick, rough straw net. It never bothered her, not even when they would filet her alive and leave her wet & bleeding life… rent upon their decks.
Nothing ever seemed to bother her, asleep or awake, she just kept swimming.
But her blood boiled & bubbled underneath the skin, causing bends where thoughts should have been.