October 18, 2008—Salem Asylum
“Mr. Montgomery!” Janice Airworthy exclaimed with overdone delight. “We hoped you’d be here today. We need your assistance with Ms. Trent’s cell again.”

Chester Montgomery had never understood why Janice felt the need to speak in plural like that. There was no “we.” The High Boss, as Chester referred to her in the privacy of his own thoughts, stayed locked in her basement office, rarely speaking, and the chef was an angry man with no “inside voice.” Chester also resented the implication that he might potentially fail to show up to work one day. Had he ever missed a day in all his six years at the Salem Asylum? The answer was no. Sometimes, Janice’s mind seemed deeply shallow. But he supposed she meant well, so he refrained from using his angry eyes.

Chester didn’t reply, even though she always seemed to expect him to do so. Janice was always expecting things that way. He waited for her to ascend from her cubicle with the key. She cleared her throat importantly to end the prolonged silence before standing.

“Shall we?” she asked, twirling the key ring around her index finger. Chester merely shrugged. They probably would.
Together they walked down the corridor of endless white. Not a single painting adorned the walls. There had, at one time, been a single framed passage of scripture, but it had once made a resident fly into a horrid panic, the result of which had been seven broken fingers and a flaming chicken potpie.

“Here we are—Room six-oh-six.” Janice slid the old key in with practiced precision. With a creak, the door swung open—bit by dramatic bit.

Maylin Trent sat cross-legged upon her cot, watching them enter her territory, her reddened hands twisting relentlessly in her lap. The walls were a crosshatched work of demented art. She had accomplished much in the four days since the last re-painting.

As a long-time resident of Salem Asylum, not a lot was expected of Maylin. Most of her time was occupied by scratching continuously at the walls, using every possible means. No one asked why she did it; that was simply Maylin. Chester made a good living off of her, re-painting her cell on a regular basis. She was always in a state of repose when Chester was brought in. Her eyes would remain on Chester until, safely straight jacketed, she was escorted to her holding cell. Said straightjackets were only used in instances of heightened risk because no one wanted to impose upon the free will of the residents more than necessary. In any case, no one had died yet.

Chester didn’t watch Maylin as she left. He didn’t need to. He could feel her eyes on the back of his neck. While this had disturbed him the first couple of times, he had grown very proficient at ignoring her. As a painter of asylums, that was an important skill.

When the door clicked shut, Chester raised his brush to begin. The fumes he once found noxious and repulsive now set his mind at ease.

(later that day—Chester’s apartment)
“Good evening, Spoon,” Chester said, walking briskly across the stark white, uncluttered bedroom carpet and straight to the fish bowl. Spoon had been a college graduation gift from his Aunt Beatrice seven years ago, and after a long day at work, Chester often shared his secrets with his fish.

The aunt who had raised Chester and given him Spoon had also given him the elegant chandelier which hung from his bedroom ceiling. This chandelier had originally been created for the castle of King Walter Montgomery XVII of Winscovia, a little-known country to the south of England and north of France. When King Walter’s wife, Queen Nymphadora, refused to name their first child Walter, as was tradition in the family—she firmly believed that to name a child after a relative put too many expectations on the child—King Walter demanded a divorce. Devastated, Queen Nymphadora fled to America with her older sister Beatrice and the baby. Once King Walter calmed down, he became terribly depressed and threw himself over the banister of the castle’s highest turret. Seeking revenge upon the woman she believed responsible for her son’s suicidal tendencies, Queen Lady Montgomery set out for America to kill her ex-daughter-in-law.

It was Lady Montgomery who brought the chandelier to America. Nymphadora had had it installed while she lived in the castle, and Lady thought that bringing the chandelier back to Nymphadora would be a nice, ironic thing to do before murdering her. And so it was that Queen Lady Montgomery showed up on the doorstep of the house in which Beatrice and Nymphadora were staying and raising little Chester. Lady thrust the object at her, puncturing her heart with the chandelier crystals, and Nymphadora died instantaneously. Lady was outside the nursery, scheming the kidnapping of her grandson when the police arrived and toted her away. Beatrice never knew what fate befell her.

Out of respect for her deceased sister, Beatrice had the chandelier restored, but she found it exceedingly painful to look at on a daily basis. She packed it away until Chester turned eighteen. Chester took it to college with him and hung it from his single dorm room ceiling. When he moved into his apartment in Salem, he decided to hang it in his bedroom, since that was where he spent the majority of his time.

Chester tenderly lifted the glass fish bowl from his desk and into his hands. “Guess what I did today, Spoon,” he said. Spoon said nothing. “Yes! I painted Maylin’s cell again. I don’t think I like her very much, but I guess I’d be unemployed without her, huh? Not many establishments need paintwork like that on a regular basis….”

Chester blathered on about his day for quite some time. Spoon never minded. He was a good pet. He just swished his golden tail and listened. At 8:47 PM, Chester realized he was exhausted. “By the power of Grayskull!” he said. “Would you look at the time, Spoon? I’ve got to get to bed. Nice chat.” Then, he clambered under the white sheets on his thin, white mattress in the corner of his exceedingly white bedroom and fell asleep.

October 19, 2008—Chester’s 30th birthday (3:14 AM—At the Seven-Eleven across the street)
“What do you mean you don’t sell fish tonic?” sobbed Chester to the bewildered Seven-Eleven cashier. This cashier, Jacob Naismith, had always been his favorite. He always understood that every now and then, one simply needed to experience the glory that is spreadable cheese, even if it was well past midnight. On this frigid, unfortunate night in Salem, Oregon, however, Chester felt his trust in the bearded teenager shatter. How could he let him down at a time like this?

“Chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiill, Ches’,” Jacob slurred consolingly. He patted Chester on the shoulder a few times. “This inna fish store,” he explained with an air of great patience. His words, unfortunately, were useless, as by this time, Chester had sunk to the floor in abject misery, his whimpers reverberating piteously throughout the otherwise empty store. With a murmured curse, Jacob left his post and moved to a forgotten corner of the shop where he knew he would find the frozen foods. With ease, he located a box of Fruit-O-Riffic Ice Pops and collected it. When he returned to the register, Chester was still huddled inward, so he knelt down to extend to him the box. “Here,” he said gruffly. “‘S on the house.”
Chester uncurled enough to pout. “Y-you know I only buy the purple ones.” Chester firmly believed that the jokes on the purple popsicle sticks were far superior to the jokes on the others.

“Well, take ‘em anyway. Will tha’ be all?” Chester straightened slowly and carefully composed himself. He glared mildly at Jacob.

“No,” he said shortly, and he placed a jar of his favorite cheese spread on the counter. “That will be all.” Jacob grunted in response and scanned the items.

“One-oh-eight’s the total.” Chester rummaged in his pocket for a moment and pulled out a large coin purse. Seventy-five seconds later, the counter held three quarters, three dimes and a nickel.

“Keep the change,” Chester said. Then, he exited the shop.

Snow seeped into Chester’s moccasins, flattened his sandy curls, and melted against his white t-shirt. Had Chester not been far too despondent to notice or care, he would have complained that only in Salem could such weather occur in mid-October. When he had awakened today at 2:51 AM to the enormous hankering for cheese spread, he had not been prepared to see the sickly pallor of his beloved pet goldfish’s face. More than anything else in the world, Chester feared that by the time he saw Spoon again, the light would have left the fish’s tiny black eyes. Though Chester did not own a car, and the buses didn’t run this late at night, and Chester deeply distrusted cab drivers, he would have willingly walked the three miles to the nearest pet shop if he had thought it would help. But he knew that the store would not be open at this hour.

Chester seethed at the injustice of it all as he passed over the threshold of his apartment. Pets didn’t die any less frequently than humans did at 3:00 AM, so why wasn’t there a proper infirmary for his poor fish?

When Chester reached his bedroom, he sank to his knees for the second time that night, but this time in relief; Spoon was stilling hanging in there. Gently, he picked up the fish bowl and carried it to his thin mattress in the corner, where he settled in for his vigil. He was glad he had his cheese to help him through the long night.

11:26 PM (later that day in Chester’s apartment)
It was finally time for the last square foot of wall. The paint looked lovely; there wasn’t a single scratch visible under the surface anymore. He had done well.

With satisfaction, he lifted the paintbrush for the final section of paint. His job wasn’t awful, but he didn’t have any urge to stay longer than absolutely necessary. He was looking forward to another quiet weekend with Spoon….
Something was wrong. The paint—why had his bucket of white paint suddenly turned red? It would take him ages to cover that! Baffled, he watched the red spread slowly across the white. This wasn’t normal paint behavior at all. This red quite frankly made him feel ill. It looked like pain. It reminded him of his poor fish—

“Spoon!” Chester shouted, jerking awake. He looked down at the bowl in his hands. “No,” he choked. It couldn’t be.
Spoon floated on the water’s surface, mouth agape and eye still open. He was dead? Chester’s heart snapped right in two. His best friend was gone.

At that moment, Chester felt like a turkey on Thanksgiving. What future was there for him now? He had no one, save for a nosy Aunt Beatrice in Rhode Island. He could hardly move back in with her. Spoon would never have approved.

“Spoon,” he moaned. He tried to recall what life had been like before Spoon and failed to recollect. Maybe he should take some personal time. Could he, really? He hadn’t missed a day of work in over six years. It’s time, he thought gravely.
He picked up the phone. “Hullo, Janice?”

October 25, 2008—Chester’s apartment
Chester tore through the hallway to his bedroom at a not-quite-run. Guilt ravaged at his pancreas as he thought of his poor, lonely dead fish. Spoon deserved a caretaker who didn’t leave him at the slightest twinge of his bladder. He was weak—weak! What if his dearly departed pet’s soul was still drifting, half-reposed? He was a failure. What had he been thinking? A fish as intrinsically good as Spoon would have quite the soul; there was no way it would have vanished after a mere five days.

He hung his head as he prodded the door open. Please forgive me, he thought. Sighing mournfully, he raised his gaze to rest upon his fish. But Spoon wasn’t there.

“What—where—Spoon!” Chester spluttered frantically. And he found Spoon.

Maylin Trent sat calmly upon his shoddy mattress, licking his dead beloved pet.

“I’ve missed you this week,” she said. Her eyes gave nothing away. Did she actually expect a response?

A pregnant pause elapsed. Then, Maylin’s sinister green eyes flooded with salty wet pain. “I have been distraught,” she sobbed. “I have not slept.”

Chester shifted his weight restlessly. “My… my fish. He is passed. I only needed time. Please give me my fish, Ms. Trent.” Maylin growled gutturally and hurled the glass bowl across the room. It shattered against the wardrobe, where water dribbled steadily down the wood to the rug.

“I. Have. Been. Distraught!” she growled. Chester shivered and scratched urgently at his week-old beard.

“I am deeply sorry, Ms. Trent! M-my fish, see—!”

“I have heard quite enough about your fish!” Maylin erupted. Chester was offended. No one talked about Spoon like that.

“Why are you here?” he asked icily. Maylin scoffed, indignant. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I told you. I’ve missed you, dear,” she said sweetly. Her dilapidated smile only flickered when Chester flinched.

“We have never even spoken, Ms. Trent,” Chester added haltingly. Maylin’s eyes flashed with fury, and Chester took a step back from the imminent explosion. This would be trouble.

“LIES!” she roared. “We spoke on the sweet occasion of our first meeting! The warden said, ‘Mr. Montgomery, this is Ms. Maylin Trent; she’s been here awhile.’ And then you said, ‘Hullo.’ Do you deny it?”

“I suppose not….” Chester acceded. The shock of the occasion was beginning to wear off, and he felt impatient and a bit afraid. “But won’t you leave Spoon alone? He has—” and here, his voice broke, “He did you no wrong!”

“On the contrary,” Maylin scowled. “He has done me wrong by winning your affection where I could not. But that is no matter. Your fish is in the great glass bowl in the sky! Heeheehm oooh hahahaha!”

So love was what she wanted? How unfortunate that it was the only thing that he could never truly give her. There must be a way out of this mess…. “What do you want?” Chester asked dejectedly. Surely this woman must have some kind of desire upon which they could compromise. Maybe she shared his appetite for cheese spread.

“I do not ask for what I know I cannot receive,” said Maylin. Then, from beneath the thin mattress upon which she sat, she drew a sword. Chester’s heart dropped into his small intestine.

“M-Ms. Trent, you know I would never have hurt you intentionally. I-I will do anything, Ms. Trent!” Surely she wouldn’t kill him. It was simply too absurd.

“You will not love me,” she whispered, “And so you must be eliminated.” She threw the sword wildly and missed by a wide margin. The tip plowed through the bedroom door, causing it to slam shut entirely.

“You ought to return, Ms. Trent! You need help!” Chester yelped. He would have nightmares for the rest of his life, surely.

“Never!” she screamed. “You—you have not suffered! I command you to suffer!” Chester’s knees gave, and he hit the carpet with a muffled thump. He felt the water from Spoon’s bowl seeping through the knees of his khaki cargo pants.
“I am suffering a great deal, Ms. Trent! You need help! Please, I beg of you—leave me to bury my fish in peace!”

Maylin wailed; it was an unearthly sound. The chandelier rattled. She lunged across the room, perhaps to retrieve the sword or perhaps to make a physical attack, and—CRASH—the chandelier fell. Maylin’s scream came to a garbled close.
Chester stepped closer to inspect the situation. Was he grateful or guilt-ridden? “Maylin?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes, love?” Maylin croaked. They both knew the end was near. A single tear dripped down Maylin’s agonized face.

“I apologize about the chandelier,” he said. Did he mean it? Did it matter?

“I forgive you, darling,” said Maylin, as if in a dream. That was nice to know, Chester supposed—even if it was a little creepy.

“And Maylin?” Chester said suddenly, needing to put her mind at rest. It wouldn’t do for her to haunt him all his days. Spoon probably hated him for allowing Maylin to get her hands on him as it was. He didn’t need two personal ghosts.

“Mm?” she responded weakly. Yes, he had to say something. They would both feel better.

“I’ve always thought you were very unique,” he said. Maylin smiled a bit and expelled a contented breath. Chester allowed himself to relax.

“And Maylin?” he asked again. He had one thing still that must be said. Then, truly, things might be alright again.
But Maylin did not respond, for she was in the great glass bowl in the sky.

Chester sighed. “You’re on my fish….”