It was a dim enclosed world with low level lighting. It was a white burrow.

Many fish, it was a world populated with fish. The pictures on the wall were of fish, with different backdrops and different personalities. Some sparkled and flashed a clear blue as of sequins, while others rippled much moodier than mud. She worshipped the powerful silvery muscles of Great Thrasher, the Fish God. His primary quality was that you couldn't get hold of him. His secondary quality was that you always knew he was there. When she ate scallops or mussels, she could taste him, that sweet and salt of him, the flare of his fins filled her down each fluttering finger and toe. Each breath she took in her tepid brown basement thrilled to echo his raspy blood-filled transformative gills, that effortless pumped a substance so firm and so cold.

Help me, she said. But, you remember, fish eyes don't really see you, even before they are dead.