A man and his fish

After feeling around in the dark for the light switch for a few seconds, Hori managed to illuminate the scene before him. He stood there, motionless, searching with his eyes. It looked like a cyclone had been captured mid-motion; the chandelier was hanging crooked, his painting of a lighthouse had been partially torn from the frame and every surface was covered in glistening shards of glass. Before he could fully take in the destruction, he spied what he was desperately looking for. He ran to the shivering, panting mass in the corner.

“Carl? Have they hurt you? Are you bleeding?” he managed, between terrified breaths.

“No, no, I'm... I'm fine... Oh, Hori! Why do they do this?!” Carl panted, then broke down, sobbing. Hori put his dressing gown over Carl's scaly back, even though it barely covered any of his giant body.

“You know they've never understood us. I'm just glad you're safe.” Hori paused to further examine his surroundings, “Didn't they come in?”

“They're scared of me. They ran away when I came in, then threw bricks at the windows.”

“It's OK, I'll just clean up the glass, so you can move into the kitchen.” Hori returned shortly with a dustpan and broom. He set them down, then reached out a hand to Carl. Carl rested his giant fin in it and Hori squeezed tight.

“Maybe... Well, I don't see any other way... I think I have to leave-” Carl began.

“Don't worry, I'm here,” Hori cut him off, “I'll always be your man, Carl.”

“You-you're right, Hori. I'm sorry. You know I'll always be your fish.”