This is a very simple story.
In my class I was bigger than most of the boys. Probably stronger than the majority of them. When the teacher asked for the helping hand of two strong boys, I looked around and found sweaty palms of half-boys half-fish too afraid to be in the ocean. The bravest two, like bold catfish, stood taller than they were and jumped to the front, but the box was heavier than they thought and ended up suffocating in the shore. The sardonic smile of the teacher hurt more than a harpoon. Looking at the crowd, her dead eyes stopped and looked upon me.
“Everything would have been easier if we had asked her to help us.”
Her pointing finger pierced my body. Silence fell on the crowd until the first laughter hit my back, like an angry mob carrying sticks and throwing stones. When I stood up, silence fell again like the first snow. I walked towards the box, a bold salmon jumping the waves of the river, challenging angry bears and ferocious fishermen. I took the box in my hands like an adolescent holds her first doll, and took it outside the classroom. I kept walking. I took the box downstairs. I took the big door and left the school. I past the grey dirty pavement. I could feel my firm and strong feet building flowers with each step, building the green pasture, knowing that the greener the meadow the closer to the water. I built bridges that I destroyed with the batting of my lashes. I set the whole town on fire, and when I looked back I was deep in the water, the box still in my hands, begging to let it go like a supplicant Ophelia. I lay my body and wet my gills and guts. The fire reflected upon the water as if the carnival had just arrived. I heard tambourines and the sad tune of a bandoneon. The box was drowning with me, still in my hands. It was filled with books spilling their stories like blood flowing. I smiled and jumped deeper, and the rainbow trout I had become defied the sun.