Catch! Emma Rowley

Catch!

It was a catching day when he left.

She remembers seeing the slithy backs of the creatures wriggling in the liquid, beady eyes matching her vacant stare. She was kicking her legs in butterfly-motion, round and around and around, letting the backs of her heels smack against the concrete slab she was sitting atop every time the circle was complete.

It was the first time she’d ever realised her hair smelt bad, because she had forgotten to wash it. Only the year before, she lived under a stable bath time routine dictated by the catchers. Now, she was deemed old enough to wash her own hair, and for the first time, she’d let slip the routine for want of more time staring at the creatures. It stank of oil and sweat and overwhelming loss.

He was a catcher, the best. He used to put on the canary gloves, and delve his hands straight into the liquid. The creatures were mostly calm with him, losing their final moments of life with grace and acceptance in his arms. If they didn’t, he’d snap their necks in seconds. He was practical like that.

It was a shame that he left on a catching day, because it was his favourite day of the month in the warehouse. Other times, he’d spend the hours picking at the bones of the creatures like she did, scraping out the marrow with a toothpick. They’d eat it in the week before catching days, the days when the flesh was gone.

She, like the others, wonders what will happen when she leaves, and is confined to the liquid too. Whether the scales that will grow on her skin crunch well in the mouths of future catchers, her flesh tender and warm on the tongue.

She remembers looking at him changing slowly in the liquid, eyes dulling and skin hardening. She remembers smacking her feet again and again against the concrete, knowing she’d now be a catcher, too.

EMMA ROWLEY