Toxic

It was simply too hot. Rubber tires stuck to pavements. Anything plastic melted into a sticky sludge if left outside for too long. The air was thick and heavy with chemicals and pollutants; every breath felt like sucking in a lungful of fire. It wasn’t uncommon to see people collapsed on the side of streets, unable to take another step to the cool refuge of a sealed building. Televisions were filled with newscasts of smiling politicians, calmly announcing that there was nothing wrong. We’ll be fine. This will go away. 

I hated mornings. Waking up always felt like a chore. Air Toxicity Levels: 54%. Not too bad. I clumsily pulled my air-filter over my face, my fingers working to tighten the straps comfortably around my head. The thin fabric of my clothing fit tightly over my arms and legs, made of fabric specially designed to prevent our bodies from overheating. I hesitated a little before reaching for my goggles. They weren’t comfortable, but at least they prevented my eyes from stinging in the toxic air. 

I had eaten breakfast quickly enough for me to join the last group of people to exit the building, a bland yet nutritional mixture that would provide me enough energy until lunch. I stared outside one of the few windows we had. The sky was a deep, dark red, a beautiful yet harrowing color that served as a constant reminder of the dangers beyond that piece of glass. I took a deep breath. Sealed buildings had the artificial, stale smell of recycled air. I never could get used to it, but at least it was safe. Outside was not safe. 

Twenty years ago, pollution levels in most major cities became so high that cities were deemed unlivable, toxic wastelands similar to Chernobyl. The thousands upon thousands of urban residents moved out in hordes upon hordes, filling up the suburbs. Land became scarce. Clouds of poisonous gas moved from the cities to the suburbs, making air unbreathable and pouring down stinging droplets of acid rain. The government began constructing a series of “sealed” buildings, where each family received one cramped apartment and were able to enjoy the luxuries of being isolated from the toxic air. Unfortunately, not everybody was fortunate enough to live in safety, and many spent their last days breathing centuries upon centuries of pollutants, wandering what once was before dying a slow yet painful death, every cell in their body tainted. 

I worked as a doctor. I never found passion in my work, but at least a small sense of satisfaction that I did something, rather than absolutely nothing. I received a decent wage, enough to get by but not enough to motivate me to try any harder. Every person who visited my office had an illness obviously due to the pollution. Cancers, coughs, sores, the likes. The hospital I worked at was small and poorly funded, with barely enough supplies to patch a broken leg. I could only tell them to avoid breathing the air, to slow down the rate at which they were already dying. But what could I do? It was everywhere. 

There was this one patient that I could never forget, a little thought always eating away at what remained of my mindless brain. She was young and innocent and sweet, part of the first generation to be born after the event twenty years ago. Unfortunately, the air poisoned every fetus, penetrating the child’s body before they could even take their first breath. She was born frail and sickly, her limbs as thin as a sapling’s twig. A small cough followed her every attempt to speak. Yet her eyes remained bright and hopeful, like two little stars in the night sky that never saw.  

She always came into my office holding her tired mother’s hand, with a little excited skip in her step. I was sitting on my old, rusted stool, the bright red leather fading with age. In her little hand was a worn-out picture book, “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein. I hadn’t seen that book in years, let alone a children’s book that wasn’t already half-destroyed. The pages were slightly yellowed, with an occasion tear here and there, I presume from flipping the pages too excitedly.  

“Look what I got for my birthday!” She showed me the book, smiling brightly. She had recently turned five years old, according to her records. I smiled back. Her mother whispered into my ear, “Her cough has been getting worse. I’m scared.” I moved my stethoscope around her back as a coughing fit took over her body. I could feel her small body trembling, attempting to hold itself together.  

Once she got herself together, she opened her book to the first page and pointed to the tree, the tragic protagonist. “I want to see a tree!”, she exclaimed, a hint of sadness tainting her enthusiastic voice. “Mommy said there were trees everywhere when she was little.” Her mother nodded, a little shyly. “Have you ever seen a tree?” She looked at me, her eyes filled with a desperate hope. I nodded. “There used to be trees everywhere. There was even a forest next to my house! Trees as far as the eye could see.” I closed my eyes. 

I grew up in the suburbs, living in the typical middle-class household. Our house was small, yet it was surrounded by a forest, a green little paradise contrasting the dull bleakness of the concrete city. I remember that I spent much of my childhood staring outside the window, watching the little birds and squirrels nervously skitter among the bright emerald green leaves. Deer gracefully walked about, their large ears twisting this way and that, carefully listening for any sudden noises. During the summer, there were small red wild berries that stood out like little rubies. Butterflies lazily drifted about, while the low hum of busy carpenter bees filled the humid air.  

I slowly watched as the trees disappeared. Some lost their leaves in the autumn in preparation for the cold winter, never waking up come spring. Some fell down gracefully, losing a long battle with the beetles that chewed through their magnificent trunks. Sooner or later, everything became a barren wasteland. All that remained was a few weeds, soon to be crushed by the foot of a careless passerby. 

The little girl’s condition only got worse. It was harder to breath, harder to speak, harder to stand. She soon became confined to a hospital bed, sitting there as she coughed up blood. She always smiled when I came to check on her condition, running tests and giving her some over-the-counter medications to alleviate the symptoms. But she and I both knew that this was no solution.  

She died on a bleak Tuesday, with her mother by her side. “The Giving Tree” was grasped tightly in her small hands. She was only seven years old, yet she had the wisdom of someone who had lived many decades.  

Today marks the day eight years after that girl died. Her mother gifted me her favorite book as a thank you for taking care of her daughter during her last moments. I placed it in my office, sometimes reading it to relive the nostalgia of the older days. Of course, after her, I had witnessed many deaths, both young and old. But never again did I see someone with so much hope. I myself had lost hope, consigning myself to the dullness of whatever remained of the future. 

Instead of taking the usual bus to my clinic, I decided to board a random bus. I didn’t care where it took me. I just wanted to go somewhere else, somewhere I’ve never been before. I sat quietly at the back of the bus, watching the tall buildings fade away into nothingness. Rusty signs passed by as the other passengers left the bus at each stop. Sooner or later, I was the last one there.  

The bus driver finally called out in a deep voice, “Hey! This is the last stop.” I gathered myself and left. The bus left me on the edge of a once bustling city. Grey skyscrapers rose above my head. Some buildings had collapsed from lack of maintenance, creating a concrete maze. Shards of broken glass lay about, cracking under my foot as I explored the wasteland. Here and there I spotted a flash of colorful graffiti, probably from teenagers who visited the city after people had evacuated, looking to have some unsupervised fun. Small weeds had grown through the small cracks in sidewalks and streets. Some walls were overtaken by tough vines. Some cars were left, abandoned with the keys still in the ignition. I walked slowly through the city, remembering the crowds of people that once walked these streets. I took off my filters and goggles, letting them fall to the ground. The air stung my lungs as I took in a deep breathe. My eyes watered a bit, but I could still see clearly. 

And then I saw it. In the very center of the abandoned city. A single tree. A young sapling. It was growing in the middle of a once busy intersection. Its leaves were bright and green, reminiscent of the trees in my younger days. I felt a small smile curl up the corners of my mouth. I had hope.