The war at home

It was not the broken tank, or the dreams that were shattered that day, it was the hope that maybe one day, those little ones that escaped would be able to walk up to me with pride and say, tell us about our conception daddy.

Now what was left? Two dead goldfish a broken tank, some blood,a miniature treasure chest, a paramedic removing the glass from Delia's crack and water mixed with semen and waterweed, all over the floor, and the carpet! The carpet that I saved up for. The carpet that I picked from thousands upon thousands in a book in carpetright, ruined.
All in three seconds flat.
I implore you good people, do not fuck on a fishtank.