The first sensation wasn't water. It was a crushing, suffocating *wrongness*. Marcus Thorne opened eyes that felt too large, too unblinking, and saw not the sterile white ceiling of the ICU, but a distorted, curved world. Emerald green fronds waved like drunken giants beyond a curved, translucent barrier. Tiny, shimmering motes danced in shafts of watery light. Panic, cold and absolute, seized him. He tried to gasp, to scream, but instead, his mouth opened and closed silently, drawing in a cool, thick fluid that flowed over strange, fleshy ridges inside his throat. *Gills.* The word surfaced through the terror, a detached, clinical observation amidst the drowning feeling of *not-drowning*.
Memory flooded back, sharp and brutal. The screech of tires on wet asphalt. The blinding glare of headlights swerving into his lane. The sickening crunch of metal and glass. The fading beep of his own heart monitor in the ambulance. The profound darkness… and then *this*.
He wasn't Marcus Thorne, award-winning architect, lover of single-malt whisky and complex Bach fugues, anymore. He was… confined. Small. His world was defined by smooth, curved walls that warped the room beyond into a funhouse nightmare. He tried to move, and his body responded with a violent, uncontrolled lurch. A flick of a powerful muscle he didn't recognize sent him careening sideways, colliding softly with a smooth, cold surface. *Glass.* The fishbowl.
He hung suspended, trembling with the effort of simply *being*. His body was a sleek, orange-and-white torpedo, perhaps five inches long. Fins, delicate membranes stretched over thin rays, fluttered uselessly. A tail, a fan of vibrant color, propelled him when he willed it, but with an alien, disconcerting force. He felt the water flow over his scales, a constant, intimate caress he could now *interpret*. Subtle shifts in pressure registered along his lateral line, a ghostly map of currents and vibrations he instinctively understood. He could *taste* the water – the faint tang of chlorine, the mineral bite of the gravel beneath him, the distant, terrifying scent of… *cat*?
A low, rumbling vibration pulsed through the water. Marcus swiveled his enormous, unblinking eyes. Beyond the curved glass, magnified and distorted, loomed a vast, furry landscape of grey and white. A colossal paw, tipped with claws like ivory scimitars, pressed against the glass, sending tremors through his tiny world. Above it, two enormous, vertically slit pupils fixed on him with chilling intensity. *Mr. Whiskers.* The recognition hit like a physical blow. *His* cat. Or rather, the cat belonging to the life he'd just lost. From this perspective, the benign tabby was a leviathan, a monster from the deep whose gentle purr vibrated like an earthquake.
"Get away!" Marcus tried to roar. It emerged as a stream of bubbles and a frantic dart behind a ludicrously oversized ceramic castle, painted a garish pink. He pressed his flank against the cool porcelain, heart hammering – a rapid, frantic flutter against his tiny ribs. The absurdity was overwhelming. Trapped in a fishbowl, hiding from his own cat. Humor warred with terror, leaving him trembling.
He forced himself to be still, to *think*. Human thoughts felt sluggish, muffled by the water and the sheer biological simplicity of his new form. His mind kept drifting. The intricate blueprints for the new civic center – gone. The satisfying weight of a drafting pencil – irrelevant. The taste of a perfectly seared steak – a memory that now caused a confusing pang of hunger, but for something… different. Algae? Fish flakes? The thought was revolting.
He surveyed his prison. Fine, white gravel covered the bottom, dotted with brightly colored, plastic pebbles that seemed like boulders. The pink castle dominated one side, beside a tiny treasure chest that perpetually bubbled, releasing streams of air that shimmered upwards. Green plastic plants, their fronds stiff and artificial, offered scant cover. And above it all, the surface – a shimmering, silvery ceiling he instinctively knew was both gateway and barrier. Air. Death.
Memories surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome. His last conversation with his daughter, Sarah. An argument about her dropping out of med school to pursue art. Harsh words spoken, fueled by stress and a looming deadline. He'd promised to call her back. He never did. The guilt was a physical ache, sharper now in this confined space. Had she been told? Did she care? Did *anyone* truly care beyond the initial shock? The thought of his sleek, minimalist apartment, now empty, his projects reassigned, his existence fading like a ripple on a pond… it was a desolation deeper than the ocean.
A shadow fell over the bowl. Marcus froze. A giant, fleshy orb, magnified and distorted by the water and glass, pressed close. A human eye. Then another. Framed by strands of blonde hair. *Eleanor.* His… widow? The term felt alien. Her face was puffy, eyes red-rimmed. She tapped the glass gently with a manicured fingernail. The sound resonated like a gong inside Marcus's watery skull.
"Hello, little guy," her voice was muffled, thick with tears. "You're all that's left, you know? Just you and me now." She sighed, a sound that vibrated the water. "He never liked fish. Thought they were boring." A bitter laugh escaped her. "Guess the joke's on him, huh?"