Bruises

Bruises

Once upon a time, there lived an apple named Aubrey and an orange named Octavia. They resided in a farm named “Jack’s Farm” located in the centre of Canada, amongst freezing rain and frosty winter nights. 

Aubrey belonged to the mighty Rosaceae family, which fared extremely well in the cold Canadian climate. Meanwhile, Octavia descended from the Citrus family who preferred warmer weather. 

The world was changing though. Temperatures were averaging 35° in Canada, drawing dozens of Citruses—lemons, grapefruits, pomelos—to the now humid prairies and sweltering suburbs. 

Farmers all over Canada began doting on the Citruses, leaving the remaining crops forgotten and injured in the immature care of ranch hands. Many families were infuriated, especially the Rosaceae. 

Each night, Aubrey’s family fought over whether they should emigrate or try to win Jack, their farmer, back. Their voices, loud and shrill, rattled the leaves and Aubrey. 

“Did you hear that that horrible ranch hand gave Jenny a mouthful of water yesterday? He doesn’t know how to turn on sprinkle mode like Jack!” Granny Smith complained. “Those nasty bruises are stealing everything away from us!”

Aubrey gasped. A bruise was the worst insult you could give to a fruit. It was equivalent to wishing someone death. 

She didn’t understand why everyone was so grouchy, but soon enough, her mother set things straight. 

“The Citruses are nothing but trouble. You shouldn’t talk to them, help them, or even interact with them at all.” Her mother snarled, eyes bright and cheeks aflame. 

Each evening, Aubrey stared at the Orange Orchards which were directly across from the Apple ones. Jack’s Farm covered over 445 acres of land, but for some horrible reason, he just had to put the oranges and apples beside each other.

Aubrey couldn’t believe what she saw. These appalling oranges laughed and smiled like everything was okay—like they hadn’t ruined everyone’s lives. Suddenly, she spotted a particularly nasty, vermillion orange—a wannabe Apple. 

Aubrey stuck out her tongue. “Go back to where you came from!” 

It was a phrase she often heard her family shout to the Pomelos. Aubrey smiled smugly, watching the vermillion orange burst into tears. 

Her family would be proud. 

She was protecting the Rosaceae. 

***

“The Rosaceae are just jealous of the beautiful trees we inhabit, the verdant leaves we’ve befriended, and the sunlight we receive.” Octavia’s mother whispered to her tearful daughter as dusk fell. 

“Then why did one of them say I should ‘go back to where I came from?’” Octavia sniffled, wiping her orange cheeks. 

“That is just how the world is. There will always be someone who doesn’t like what you do, but you’ve just got to ignore them.” 

Unease still crept up Octavia’s spine. Her family had come to Canada for better opportunities, but so far, all she saw was hatred and pettiness. 

Was it so wrong to want to be eaten instead of squeezed or mashed? Back home, the only occupation an orange could have was being turned into juice. It was an OK path, but Octavia wanted more. She wanted to be tagged with a barcode, living in a grocery shop, put into someone’s shopping basket—that was the “Citrus Dream.” 

She had less than a year left in this damn orchard—she could survive it. 

She had to. 

And if she didn’t?

Well, Octavia refused to think of that. 

***

1 Year Later

One thing Octavia liked the most about living in FoodyMart was the grocer. Each day, at 7 AM sharp, he would fix the pyramid of oranges on display and spray them with a drizzling of icy water. 

Octavia felt happier and fuller with each spray, but it wasn’t enough to curtail the shame and fear she felt each day. 

Despite finally escaping the evil Rosaceae family at Jack’s Farm, Octavia hadn’t been able to get rid of Aubrey and her hateful slander. Aubrey stuck to her like a pesky flea all throughout the picking season, truck-shipping, and delivery. That’s how they ended up in the same grocery store, in the same fruit aisle, right across from each other. 

What a blast from the past.  

Octavia wasn’t the prettiest orange, so she ended up on the penultimate row of the orange pyramid. 

 Aubrey, on the other hand, sat bright and proud on the very top of her pyramid. 

It annoyed Octavia, how unfair and prejudiced the world was. 

Aubrey’s peel was beautiful, but her flesh and juice were cruel and sadistic. Was that the type of apple people wanted? 

Octavia couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it. There was no point, she figured, fixating on horrible thoughts like that. 

So, Octavia sat in her lowly spot on the pyramid, listening to the chatter of customers and drowning out Aubrey’s hissing. 

“You’re a rotten, lazy, and ugly piece of nothing! Nobody likes oranges. Especially you, Octavia.” 

Maintaining an ignorance to Aubrey’s razor-sharp words was like performing photosynthesis without chloroplasts: impossible. Octavia had endured a lifetime of abuse from Aubrey.

Octavia’s thick peel was faltering. 

Today, it seemed, Aubrey had it out for her; she’d started off the morning with a demeaning chant. 

“Obtuse Octavia, Ornery Octavia, Oily Octavia, Obese Octavia, Oafish Octavia. . .” 

Octavia wanted to rip Aubrey’s stupid stem off, but she reined in her fury. Even after the oranges—her “friends”— started laughing as well. 

As the evening progressed, so did Aubrey’s taunts. 

It was almost as if she was egging Octavia to mess up. To fall onto the floor. To mold. To bruise. 

Her mother’s words echoed in her head. “You’ve just got to ignore them, ignore them, ignore them, ignore them.” 

“Obtuse Octavia, Ornery Octavia, Oily Octavia, Obese Octavia, Oafish Octavia. . .”

“Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them.” 

“Obtuse Octavia, Ornery Octavia, Oily Octavia. . .”

“Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them.” 

“Obtuse Octavia, Ornery Octavia, Oily Octavia. . .”

Finally, Octavia had had enough. She whipped around, ready to scream at Aubrey. But the round, rouge beauty wasn’t there. 

Hesitantly, Octavia looked down and saw her rolling on the floor, sporting the greatest, darkest bruise in history. 

Aubrey was emitting a prolonged shrill scream, her eyes wide with shock. 

Octavia couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her archenemies was bruised. Bruised! Octavia grinned to herself.

Karma came through at last. 

The grocer waltzed into the fruit aisle and swept Aubrey into a garbage bag, where she’d most likely end up as compost. 

Then, the most amazing thing happened. 

Octavia wasn’t sure what was happening other than the fact that she was being lifted up up up. 

She was far above the ground now, being placed in a plastic green cart! 

Octavia wanted to squeal! 

If someone told her three years ago that all her dreams would come true, Octavia would’ve laughed until her juice oozed out. 

But it was true. After years of being despised and discriminated against, she was getting the future she always dreamt of: being purchased and eaten.  

And to top it all off, Aubrey was dead! 

Octavia felt slightly sorry for the apple. It wasn’t all Aubrey’s fault for everything she’s done. Her family and society, in general, played a large role in influencing her opinions and actions. 

It took Octavia a long time to realize so. 

It’s extremely difficult to change someone’s views, but it’s exponentially harder to change an entire society. 

She hoped that in the future, no more Citruses would face the same discrimination she faced. 

She hoped that the Citrus would continue to stand by each other in times of distress.

Octavia carried these hopes all the way from the check-out line, to the car-ride home, and into the customer’s stomach. 

The end.