Sick World

When Gabrio turned 8, his Lola gave him a money tree. 

"This is for good fortune" She had said, placing the plant in his thin arms, "be kind to it."

He hugged it to his chest, smiling up at her through the vibrant green. The trunk twisted together in a neat braid, and the leaves sprouted in odd numbers from the top like little fountains. It was beautiful and whimsical, and it took him a second to decide it was his new favourite thing. 

Over the course of a month, Gabrio fussed over the plant. Making sure the soil never went dry, and the leaves never went too long without daylight. He'd pet at the leaves and whispered to it kind words. 

One day, he noticed how one of the leaves turned a faint yellow. So, Gabrio poured extra water into the dirt, worried the plant didn't have enough to drink. The very next day, the leaf fell anyway, and another turned yellow in its place. Desperate, Gabrio placed the plant outdoors, hoping it would catch enough sunlight to continue living. But the plant grew cold and frail overnight, unable to hold onto its fragile leaves when the wind came to whisk them away.

Confused and heartbroken, Gabrio brought the bare tree to his Lola, wondering what more he could have done for his money tree. 

"I watered it all the time, I made sure it got plenty of sunshine, I even put it outside so it could have some fresh air." 

To his surprise, Lola told him what the plant truly needed was less from him. 

"You suffocated it." She said, only a little disappointed at the state of the plant. Gabrio tried not to feel hurt by the words, but his favourite thing in the world had died, and it was because he loved it too much.

***

Surely it is not love that is killing the trees. 

They wanted everything and gave nothing in return. Now they are angry, claiming the world could have done better, never once considering themselves part of it. 

The sun is a red circle in the sky, covered by a cloud of smoke that will never rain away. Below, the forests are devastated by the attention, burning, roaring in anger. The revolution of nature has begun, and no one can stop what they started. They are too busy laying blame, pointing fingers this way and that, at everyone but themselves for how the world is suffocating.

Outside the bunker, an ominous cloud of smoke looms like visible death. The worn neoprene edges of a hazard mask itch persistently at his face like fine blades; a mere tickle, all things considered. Cracked window sills do nothing to prevent noxious gas from entering homes. Even in the cramped bunker, heat reaches him in waves, smelling of a burning forest and copious methane gas.

 Each day, of the ones he has left, there is a five-minute window to choke down a bland meal and scrub away the evidence. Then, he slips the worn material back on his face, hiding his airways once more. 

The first to go were the vulnerable ones; souls that relied on generosity from others. They died off when compassion was readily replaced by fear in large numbers. Hospitals were closed when the need for care spiked beyond help, while safe working conditions sank. Even the remaining staff, whose sense of nurture outweighed their nature, deemed the cases that were once of high importance helpless. 

The remaining struggled to find necessity in a world going bankrupt. Flash sales were advertised in every corner of the world, selling luxuries for dirt cheap to whoever prioritized lush over life; these were the type of people who would rather be buried in a solid gold casket, deep underground, than live to see the anarchy above it. Though they were few and far. 

Then, the homeless were next. Followed shortly thereafter by the poor. With little to no money to spend on health, they swiftly fell victim to one of Earth's mass extinctions, dying along with the wildlife. The ranks of class changed over the course of a few months, leaving the middle class vulnerable, and the one percent frantic to keep a trivial status. The rich held on with a vice grip, using their power to exploit the desperate for as long as they could until governments could no longer enforce the law altogether. Then the revolutions started: murder and looting, civil wars fought amongst global wars. They were killing themselves to stay alive. 

Gabrio was far away from it all. And now, he is listening to Delani talk about it from the outdated radio unit built into the shelter's wall. Her voice flits through the cramped space, providing him with the illusion of company. She is the closest thing he has to a friend, and so, he cherishes her deeply like he would his last can of beans. 

"Delani?" He asks, fingering the cans of food along the highest shelf, "Should I have a bit of chocolate this evening?" 

The radio cuts out, screeching in agreement. 

"I suppose you're right. It is a special occasion."

The Lean- *screech* -wer o-of Pisa- is now... the toxic cloud is mov-

"That's not very nice. I think I look great for 54." He pets his concave gut, grabbing the box of expired granola bars. He salivates at the thought of sugar.

When the clock strikes midnight, Gabrio dreams of darkness, shifting grey clouds, and Delani. Sugar flows through him, animating his nightmare far more than he'd like. It makes his fingers tingle with electricity, like the feeling he would get if he stood at the edge of a cliff on a windy day. A wrong shift could have him plummeting to his death. And that's exactly what he feels when he pulls his blanket a little tighter to his body. His leg jolts violently, making his heart drop into the floor with the rest of his body. Belatedly, he registers a thick smoke seeping from the far right corner of the room. He doesn't notice the bits of debris falling from the exit hole until it's far too late. 

The smoke crawls in with a morbid flow, shifting towards him in the darkness. Even still, he can see hands forming in the deadly cloud, growing legs, clambering quickly towards his shaking body. A smoggy hand rips the mask from his face before he can think to stop it, rushing down his throat. He screams until he can't. 

***

"Mr. Lucovik, can you hear my voice?" She talks to his right, and it takes him a second to register her voice. 

"Delani? What's going on?"

"My name is Dr. Mary Lin, Mr Lucovik, you're going to be dizzy for a while..." A bright light shines into his left eye, spinning in circles with the rest of the room.

His eyebrows scrunch together. Her voice sounded much more soothing before. Now it bangs at his skull.

"How many fingers am I holding up Mr. Lucovik?" 

He squints at the hand in his face, registering the number 3. He mumbles something, forgetting the words as they leave from his lips.

"Lying down will help." There's a gentle hand on the base of his spine, then the world flip flops again. He's staring up at the ceiling when his eyes finally open, blurring almost immediately with the onslaught of tears. 

"W-where am I, " He whispers into the room. 

"You're at home, in your bed, you've—"

"No," he breathes, wiping away tears as they slide down his temples, "I was in the bunker, I was um...I was alone in my bunker." His words drip out of him like thick honey. 

"The serum will wear off in a few minutes Gabrio, I do need you to remain lying down until then." At her words, he becomes aware of the dull ache in his right shoulder. 

The air of dismissal hangs heavy in the air. Gabrio feels something ugly overtake him in the sudden silence. Whatever is going on here, feels equal parts familiar and cold. He feels he should ask about the serum and its purpose, but he's hesitant, unsure if he really wants to know. 

A clock on the wall ticks away until he recognizes it as his own. Slowly, the room begins to make sense again. This is what his home is really like. Nothing like the bunker. It wasn't even real.

"Since when did doctors start injecting citizens without consent?" He mumbles, clearing his throat. 

"People have always had too much of a choice Mr. Lucovik," She says, placing a bottle of water beside him, pointing at it with a raise of her eyebrows, "Humans need to be told what to do sometimes, because when they choose, they choose dangerously—drink that when you can move."

He almost wants to throw the water at her, but it would prove her right, plus he can't seem to lift his arm.

"Just think of it as a vaccine Mr. Lucovik." 

"I died. I shouldn't be here." He spits, scared. The crying comes back, but he does it silently.

"What you envisioned in the bunker was a specialized simulation to help you understand the imminent danger the world is in due to climate change."

"You couldn't just give me a pamphlet?" He grits out, seeing nothing but red.

"Would that have worked?" She asks, digging through a red duffle bag, "That reminds me actually." She places a rectangular sheet of paper onto his nightstand. "Read that...when you can move." She winces sympathetically. 

She packs away her things quickly. 

"I must move on, I do hope you reflect accordingly." She swings the bag onto her shoulder, turning just before she leaves, "The pamphlet will explain all you need to know about the UN initiative."

"THIS IS SICK!" 

He barely hears her voice from the hallway, "The world is sick."