Dead Fish Eyes
By
Kyle Walker
That damn smell.
Billy couldn’t escape it no matter where he went. The whole town wore it like cologne. The dry autumn wind shoved it up his nose and tattooed it to the back of his throat. Everything he ate, breathed, and drank carried that oily funk. Even in his bed, the odor washed over his face like a wave. Another wave hit. Yellowed foam covered him like a blanket. He slapped at it to wipe it away, but another wave came in with just as much force. He flopped to the side to readjust his pillow.
Wait… This ain’t my pillow.
Billy Rybakov staggered awake, spitting whiskey-infused seawater onto the sand. The bloated salmon that served as his pillow clung to his cheek like a wet kiss. The suctioned sound of it as he peeled it from his skin put him over the edge. Billy spit up more than seawater this time. And it wasn’t just infused with whiskey. His rot gut gave up the ghost, vomiting last night’s spirits onto the shoreline.
He remembered the bar. Remembered the shots of whiskey. Pouring the last of his money into the cash register to keep those shots coming.
The rotting fish looked up at him with empty eyes. If there was one thing Billy hated more than the smell of dead fish, it was the look of their dead eyes. The absence of their eyes to be exact. No matter how recent their death, the birds always found an immediate meal. Fish eyes looked lifeless anyway. But when they were carved out, plucked, and eaten, it turned the fish into monsters. Their ragged eye sockets always staring.
Billy grew up wrestling fishing nets out of the Sound. It trapped him into a job he hated and a town he could never escape. His son-of-a-bitch father set the trap, laughing at every shortcoming, staring down every mistake. It was bad when he was drunk, worse when he was sober. And when his father found out about his hatred of the dead eyes, he never let him hear the end of it.
“Whatcha ‘fraid of, Billy?” he’d say, chucking the carved-out carcasses at him. “Dead fish eyes starin’ at you again?”
The old man’s been gone for a year now, the family fishing boat lost to the bastard’s debts, but Billy remained. Another local fishing boat captain, an old drinking buddy of dear-old-Dad’s, offered him a spot onboard his ship. Billy eagerly traded his father’s old fishing net for a new one. But those eyes kept on laughing. Everyone kept on laughing. And the fishing boat captain laughed one time too many.
Fucker had it coming. Anyone who laughs at me’s gonna get a bloody nose.
At this, Billy could almost feel the weight of the quarter in his front pocket. The captain had balled up the last evidence of his name’s worth and tossed it onto the dock, along with his fishing gear. The fishing gear, he shoved into the nearest dumpster. The wad of cash followed him to the bar, but only the quarter followed him out.
Billy kicked the muddy bank that served as his bed last night. The decomposing pillow skipped into the early morning tide. Fistfuls of seawater did nothing to wash the scaly smell from his face. He kicked at the sand again, this time not really knowing why. Maybe he hoped to find a little bit of his cash left. A little bit of himself left. Instead of the reflection of his father that he wore like a second skin. Too tight on him, but just snug enough to fit.
This was supposed to be his last season. Save up enough to get out. To prove he was better than the old man. Instead, he proved only the pliability of his second skin. Easily stretching. Fitting better every day. One last kick unearthed the drained whiskey bottle.
Swiped it from behind the bar when they weren’t looking. Must have brought it out here to finish it.
He looked around at the dim morning light peeking over the mountains. Nearing the end of fishing season, the usually high Alaskan sun began settling into more of a lower 48 position. All downhill from here until after the Solstice.
The crunch of Billy’s steps turned hard, trading wooded trails for cold pavement. His newfound wakefulness brought a newfound awareness. Something was off. His silent trek back to the road made him realize how silent everything else felt. No morning birds, no insects humming, no wind. The air itself seemed vacant.
‘Cept for that damn smell.
A man leaned against the railing of the bridge into town. Billy’s steps faltered and he cleared his throat of some sort of emotion.
“M... Morning...”
“Beautiful sunrise, isn’t it.”
The man remained staring into the rising sun. He wore chest-high rubber waders but with only a thin t-shirt underneath. He kept his face turned away from Billy. Something about that twisted Billy’s stomach. Something about the world still seemed vacant. Fear seeped into each footfall.
“Um... yeah... Sure is.”
“I love watching it from here.”
The pungent fish odor smacked Billy in the face.
“The sunrise,” said the man in the rubber waders. “It’s beautiful.”
He finally turned to Billy.
Bile and the remains of the whiskey crawled up Billy’s throat. He closed his gaping mouth against its push, fighting the scream that would turn to vomit.
The man raised an eyebrow at Billy’s pale terror. That only made it worse. The man’s drooping eye sockets puckered with the effort.
“Jesus! Your eyes!”
“You okay, friend?”
“You ain’t got no eyes!”
“You really should stay.”
“Get away from me, man!”
A moan buzzed Billy’s lips as he ran from the man in the rubber waders. The man’s voice chased him across the bridge.
“It’s gonna be a beautiful day.”
#
The public fish cleaning station on the harbor always drew a lot of attention. Tourists gathered around when the charter boats brought back their rich vacationers. The kitschy wooden sign proclaiming that “The Fishing is Great in Alaska” sent them here in droves. And the row of hooks underneath the sign helped complete the picture when the fat-cats wanted to immortalize their catch.
But the hooks gathered nothing but flies as Billy came to a breathless stop at the harbor. No row of halibut. No sunburnt lawyer posing for a picture. And no charter boat captain lusting after the lawyer’s wallet-bulge. Empty promises swung on the hooks in the motor-oil scented air of the harbor.
Billy swung his head behind him. His hangover throbbed with the motion, but he needed to make sure that the man in the rubber waders didn’t follow.
Fucker must’a been born deformed or something...
But Billy had seen that hollow stare before. And it wasn’t something you were born with. He saw it in every dead fish. And in the sunken, empty eyes of his father.
Billy Rybakov Sr. never had much of a heart anyway. It was poetic then when his heart gave out and sent him tumbling overboard into the Sound. The town spent days searching, but it was Billy that eventually found him. And as in life, Billy’s father kept staring at him. Except this time, something was carved out, plucked, and devoured, turning its victim into a monster.
Billy bit back the memory.
A lungful of air settled his nerves.
“Ya lost, young man?” said a stranger.
Billy choked on the lungful, decay drifting on the stranger’s breath.
“Aw, man! What the f—”
He meant to scare off the close-talking creep with a threat. Instead, his curse wheezed into a high-pitched screech. The stranger with the bad breath and bad teeth to match, smiled through the scream. His deep crow’s-feet pinched around his gaping eye sockets. The ragged holes blinked at him like hungry mouths.
Billy kept screaming.
“Why’ya down here, young man?”
Billy’s scream gathered a crowd.
A woman carrying a paddleboard came up from the docks.
An old Asian couple toting digital cameras and unsteady feet came clicking toward Billy.
A small child wearing an unlatched lifejacket zoomed between everyone’s legs.
A jogger lifted her sunglasses for a better look at the commotion. She didn’t stop, but she slowed down enough for Billy to see.
Their eyes.
All of their eyes.
“Whatcha ‘fraid of, Billy?” laughed a voice behind him.
He didn’t need to turn to know who stood next to the row of rusted hooks.
Billy’s father wore the same rain slicker they found him in. He was missing the same left boot that they never found. And he winked at him with those same sagging, skeletal holes.
“Dead fish eyes starin’ at you again?”
Billy took staggering steps backward. “You ain’t real...”
“Where ya think you’re goin’, son? This is who you are! There ain’t no changin’ that!”
Billy broke away, racing full-out. His small storefront apartment was crammed at the end of the harbor, but he seemed to reach it in only a few fevered strides. He felt the crowd growing behind him. They followed Billy with prodding stares. The stench of death crawled into his nose and dropped down his throat. It tasted salty. Oily. Pungent.
His father’s laughter burrowed deep into his chest.
He fumbled for his keys. Whimpering to stay the tremor in his hands. He could feel the eyes behind him, gathering, staring. Somehow, he got his key into the lock, almost broke it off when it got stuck. Thankfully, the key turned before breaking and his whimper propelled him forward. Once inside, the monsters outside seemed to vanish. Laughter ceased, stench subsided, and reason returned.
Just a hangover, man.
You’re just seeing things.
Gotta wake up. WAKE UP!
The showerhead shuddered and spat cold water into the cool bathtub. The sound soothed his breathing as he waited for the water to heat up.
He knew what he should do.
Forget the shower, jump in his truck, and leave this town behind him.
Damn fish.
He left the shower running and reached into his pocket for his keys. But they weren’t there. All he dredged up was the quarter. A Washington State quarter. A breaching salmon stamped into its copper and nickel plating.
Where ya think you’re goin’?
That’s what the monster of his father said. Except this time, Billy said it to himself. It was the first time he asked it of himself. He’d spent his entire life struggling against his father’s fishing net, but he never once imagined what life would be without it. And now, on the brink of escape, he found freedom unfathomable.
He knew what he would do.
He’d call up the captain. Apologize for the bloody nose, beg for forgiveness, promise to never do it again. Make the same promises his father always failed to keep. But they were the only promises Billy knew how to make.
Damn smell.
Then he smelled it. The steam billowing from behind the shower curtain grasped at him with tendrilled claws. The claws glistened with an oily sheen. It filled his head. It turned his head. His bathroom mirror began fogging with the steam, but Billy still saw his reflection clearly. His sweaty forehead. His tussled hair. And his eyes.
The reflection stared back at him. Carved. Plucked. Devoured.
#
Pelting waves fizzed on the rocky sand and crashed over Billy Rybakov. Another wave hit. Yellowed foam covered him like a blanket. A comfort after his drunken binge. The binge that led him here. That toppled him into the surf where he breathed in the odor he hated so much. Breathed in the saltwater. And his bedfellow continued to stare.
Billy stared back.
With his own dead fish eyes.
Kyle Walker is a writer and playwright living in Valdez, Alaska. His short stories have appeared in Alien Dimensions, Scary Monsters Magazine, and the Prince William Sound Anthology Series. His theater work has been featured at the Civic Center Theater in Valdez, Alaska, Under St. Marks Theater in New York, NY, Dog Story Theater in Grand Rapids, MI, Hap Ryder Riverfront Theatre in Fairbanks, AK, and TBA Theater in Anchorage, AK. His non-musical stage adaptation, "Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera," was published by Next Stage Press in 2024. Follow him on Facebook and Instagram and at kylewalkerwriter.com.
By
Kyle Walker
That damn smell.
Billy couldn’t escape it no matter where he went. The whole town wore it like cologne. The dry autumn wind shoved it up his nose and tattooed it to the back of his throat. Everything he ate, breathed, and drank carried that oily funk. Even in his bed, the odor washed over his face like a wave. Another wave hit. Yellowed foam covered him like a blanket. He slapped at it to wipe it away, but another wave came in with just as much force. He flopped to the side to readjust his pillow.
Wait… This ain’t my pillow.
Billy Rybakov staggered awake, spitting whiskey-infused seawater onto the sand. The bloated salmon that served as his pillow clung to his cheek like a wet kiss. The suctioned sound of it as he peeled it from his skin put him over the edge. Billy spit up more than seawater this time. And it wasn’t just infused with whiskey. His rot gut gave up the ghost, vomiting last night’s spirits onto the shoreline.
He remembered the bar. Remembered the shots of whiskey. Pouring the last of his money into the cash register to keep those shots coming.
The rotting fish looked up at him with empty eyes. If there was one thing Billy hated more than the smell of dead fish, it was the look of their dead eyes. The absence of their eyes to be exact. No matter how recent their death, the birds always found an immediate meal. Fish eyes looked lifeless anyway. But when they were carved out, plucked, and eaten, it turned the fish into monsters. Their ragged eye sockets always staring.
Billy grew up wrestling fishing nets out of the Sound. It trapped him into a job he hated and a town he could never escape. His son-of-a-bitch father set the trap, laughing at every shortcoming, staring down every mistake. It was bad when he was drunk, worse when he was sober. And when his father found out about his hatred of the dead eyes, he never let him hear the end of it.
“Whatcha ‘fraid of, Billy?” he’d say, chucking the carved-out carcasses at him. “Dead fish eyes starin’ at you again?”
The old man’s been gone for a year now, the family fishing boat lost to the bastard’s debts, but Billy remained. Another local fishing boat captain, an old drinking buddy of dear-old-Dad’s, offered him a spot onboard his ship. Billy eagerly traded his father’s old fishing net for a new one. But those eyes kept on laughing. Everyone kept on laughing. And the fishing boat captain laughed one time too many.
Fucker had it coming. Anyone who laughs at me’s gonna get a bloody nose.
At this, Billy could almost feel the weight of the quarter in his front pocket. The captain had balled up the last evidence of his name’s worth and tossed it onto the dock, along with his fishing gear. The fishing gear, he shoved into the nearest dumpster. The wad of cash followed him to the bar, but only the quarter followed him out.
Billy kicked the muddy bank that served as his bed last night. The decomposing pillow skipped into the early morning tide. Fistfuls of seawater did nothing to wash the scaly smell from his face. He kicked at the sand again, this time not really knowing why. Maybe he hoped to find a little bit of his cash left. A little bit of himself left. Instead of the reflection of his father that he wore like a second skin. Too tight on him, but just snug enough to fit.
This was supposed to be his last season. Save up enough to get out. To prove he was better than the old man. Instead, he proved only the pliability of his second skin. Easily stretching. Fitting better every day. One last kick unearthed the drained whiskey bottle.
Swiped it from behind the bar when they weren’t looking. Must have brought it out here to finish it.
He looked around at the dim morning light peeking over the mountains. Nearing the end of fishing season, the usually high Alaskan sun began settling into more of a lower 48 position. All downhill from here until after the Solstice.
The crunch of Billy’s steps turned hard, trading wooded trails for cold pavement. His newfound wakefulness brought a newfound awareness. Something was off. His silent trek back to the road made him realize how silent everything else felt. No morning birds, no insects humming, no wind. The air itself seemed vacant.
‘Cept for that damn smell.
A man leaned against the railing of the bridge into town. Billy’s steps faltered and he cleared his throat of some sort of emotion.
“M... Morning...”
“Beautiful sunrise, isn’t it.”
The man remained staring into the rising sun. He wore chest-high rubber waders but with only a thin t-shirt underneath. He kept his face turned away from Billy. Something about that twisted Billy’s stomach. Something about the world still seemed vacant. Fear seeped into each footfall.
“Um... yeah... Sure is.”
“I love watching it from here.”
The pungent fish odor smacked Billy in the face.
“The sunrise,” said the man in the rubber waders. “It’s beautiful.”
He finally turned to Billy.
Bile and the remains of the whiskey crawled up Billy’s throat. He closed his gaping mouth against its push, fighting the scream that would turn to vomit.
The man raised an eyebrow at Billy’s pale terror. That only made it worse. The man’s drooping eye sockets puckered with the effort.
“Jesus! Your eyes!”
“You okay, friend?”
“You ain’t got no eyes!”
“You really should stay.”
“Get away from me, man!”
A moan buzzed Billy’s lips as he ran from the man in the rubber waders. The man’s voice chased him across the bridge.
“It’s gonna be a beautiful day.”
#
The public fish cleaning station on the harbor always drew a lot of attention. Tourists gathered around when the charter boats brought back their rich vacationers. The kitschy wooden sign proclaiming that “The Fishing is Great in Alaska” sent them here in droves. And the row of hooks underneath the sign helped complete the picture when the fat-cats wanted to immortalize their catch.
But the hooks gathered nothing but flies as Billy came to a breathless stop at the harbor. No row of halibut. No sunburnt lawyer posing for a picture. And no charter boat captain lusting after the lawyer’s wallet-bulge. Empty promises swung on the hooks in the motor-oil scented air of the harbor.
Billy swung his head behind him. His hangover throbbed with the motion, but he needed to make sure that the man in the rubber waders didn’t follow.
Fucker must’a been born deformed or something...
But Billy had seen that hollow stare before. And it wasn’t something you were born with. He saw it in every dead fish. And in the sunken, empty eyes of his father.
Billy Rybakov Sr. never had much of a heart anyway. It was poetic then when his heart gave out and sent him tumbling overboard into the Sound. The town spent days searching, but it was Billy that eventually found him. And as in life, Billy’s father kept staring at him. Except this time, something was carved out, plucked, and devoured, turning its victim into a monster.
Billy bit back the memory.
A lungful of air settled his nerves.
“Ya lost, young man?” said a stranger.
Billy choked on the lungful, decay drifting on the stranger’s breath.
“Aw, man! What the f—”
He meant to scare off the close-talking creep with a threat. Instead, his curse wheezed into a high-pitched screech. The stranger with the bad breath and bad teeth to match, smiled through the scream. His deep crow’s-feet pinched around his gaping eye sockets. The ragged holes blinked at him like hungry mouths.
Billy kept screaming.
“Why’ya down here, young man?”
Billy’s scream gathered a crowd.
A woman carrying a paddleboard came up from the docks.
An old Asian couple toting digital cameras and unsteady feet came clicking toward Billy.
A small child wearing an unlatched lifejacket zoomed between everyone’s legs.
A jogger lifted her sunglasses for a better look at the commotion. She didn’t stop, but she slowed down enough for Billy to see.
Their eyes.
All of their eyes.
“Whatcha ‘fraid of, Billy?” laughed a voice behind him.
He didn’t need to turn to know who stood next to the row of rusted hooks.
Billy’s father wore the same rain slicker they found him in. He was missing the same left boot that they never found. And he winked at him with those same sagging, skeletal holes.
“Dead fish eyes starin’ at you again?”
Billy took staggering steps backward. “You ain’t real...”
“Where ya think you’re goin’, son? This is who you are! There ain’t no changin’ that!”
Billy broke away, racing full-out. His small storefront apartment was crammed at the end of the harbor, but he seemed to reach it in only a few fevered strides. He felt the crowd growing behind him. They followed Billy with prodding stares. The stench of death crawled into his nose and dropped down his throat. It tasted salty. Oily. Pungent.
His father’s laughter burrowed deep into his chest.
He fumbled for his keys. Whimpering to stay the tremor in his hands. He could feel the eyes behind him, gathering, staring. Somehow, he got his key into the lock, almost broke it off when it got stuck. Thankfully, the key turned before breaking and his whimper propelled him forward. Once inside, the monsters outside seemed to vanish. Laughter ceased, stench subsided, and reason returned.
Just a hangover, man.
You’re just seeing things.
Gotta wake up. WAKE UP!
The showerhead shuddered and spat cold water into the cool bathtub. The sound soothed his breathing as he waited for the water to heat up.
He knew what he should do.
Forget the shower, jump in his truck, and leave this town behind him.
Damn fish.
He left the shower running and reached into his pocket for his keys. But they weren’t there. All he dredged up was the quarter. A Washington State quarter. A breaching salmon stamped into its copper and nickel plating.
Where ya think you’re goin’?
That’s what the monster of his father said. Except this time, Billy said it to himself. It was the first time he asked it of himself. He’d spent his entire life struggling against his father’s fishing net, but he never once imagined what life would be without it. And now, on the brink of escape, he found freedom unfathomable.
He knew what he would do.
He’d call up the captain. Apologize for the bloody nose, beg for forgiveness, promise to never do it again. Make the same promises his father always failed to keep. But they were the only promises Billy knew how to make.
Damn smell.
Then he smelled it. The steam billowing from behind the shower curtain grasped at him with tendrilled claws. The claws glistened with an oily sheen. It filled his head. It turned his head. His bathroom mirror began fogging with the steam, but Billy still saw his reflection clearly. His sweaty forehead. His tussled hair. And his eyes.
The reflection stared back at him. Carved. Plucked. Devoured.
#
Pelting waves fizzed on the rocky sand and crashed over Billy Rybakov. Another wave hit. Yellowed foam covered him like a blanket. A comfort after his drunken binge. The binge that led him here. That toppled him into the surf where he breathed in the odor he hated so much. Breathed in the saltwater. And his bedfellow continued to stare.
Billy stared back.
With his own dead fish eyes.
Kyle Walker is a writer and playwright living in Valdez, Alaska. His short stories have appeared in Alien Dimensions, Scary Monsters Magazine, and the Prince William Sound Anthology Series. His theater work has been featured at the Civic Center Theater in Valdez, Alaska, Under St. Marks Theater in New York, NY, Dog Story Theater in Grand Rapids, MI, Hap Ryder Riverfront Theatre in Fairbanks, AK, and TBA Theater in Anchorage, AK. His non-musical stage adaptation, "Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera," was published by Next Stage Press in 2024. Follow him on Facebook and Instagram and at kylewalkerwriter.com.
