I had a sudden memory, of my father angry. It was soon after mom had left us, a month before he, in turn, left me to fend for myself. He’d ripped off the helmet and smashed my fish tank, spilling my mollies everywhere. I hadn’t cried when my fish died, and I remembered it had bothered me for weeks after. Ever since then, I’d think of my father and those fish whenever I saw one of those helmets. I’d think of those fish flopping on the ground as I desperately tried to pick them up, cutting my fingers on the glass. I’d think of the pain and blood and of them not surviving, even after I put them
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