WASTE ZERO
What happens when we prioritise nature above all, even ourselves? A short story about the fine line between protection and destruction, between wasting zero yet wasting everything.
Fingers lightly caress the brittle surface: 100% post-consumer wastepaper. FSC-certified printing methods used to produce material infused with non-toxic soy-based inks. The smooth feel of shiny magazine pages is only a faded tactile memory that I never trained my skin to remember; maybe I should have. I stare absently at the monochromatic colours blending into the coarse feel of sustainability, almost diffusing into each other, black on peanut #795C32.
Colours are not important, not anymore, not for visual pleasure anyway. What matters now are shades of brown, to dictate how many times paper has been recycled, and how many more times it will be until it inevitably vanishes. The vibrant greens of the trees and the grass below them, a crucial indicator of how litter free, how unbothered the world is; and the virgin blue skies, unpolluted by emission gasses, constant reminders that nature has always thrived and will continue to thrive without human intervention. Colour is just another luxury. We were always so selfish to think that the world had made itself beautiful for the human eye. Once we accepted that nothing was for us, everything changed. A natural utopia, except for one thing.
“10 WAYS TO KILL YOURSELF — SPRING EDITION” and “20% OFF YOUR ASSISTED DEATH PACKAGE — expires in 14 days” were printed loud enough to distract from the quiet of everything else. I’ve been dabbling with the idea of number seven for a while: death by Atropa Belladonna, also known as Deadly NightShade. Most suicides today were performed with the use of natural poisons, some more painful than others. I was starting to get accustomed to the idea of the atropine and scopolamine paralysing every muscle in my body, including the heart. A heart which once was capable of encompassing more than passion for the environment. Quick. Painless. I was never one for suffering, although the times in which human misery was cared for are but a blurry vision of the past. I often feel as though I am one of the last ones, if not the only one, who still thinks about anything other than death and the planet, or rather, the death of the planet.
“Number forty-five. Door three.”
Forcing a blank face, I slowly get up from the cold floor, putting the magazine back into the bamboo basket as tediously as I can manage, lowly scanning the room. They stopped manufacturing wooden products, or anything for that matter, but the few left cannot be burnt, it would be blasphemy. So now they use them in clinics, mostly. There are seven other people waiting, and forty-four consulted before me. Were there only fifty-two people left? Maybe some are running late, a pathetic excuse I often force myself to believe, but one which makes me feel better regardless. Last week there were seventy-six. Does anyone else keep track?
At the start, I was convinced I would find someone, form an alliance, a bond, become an idol, a hero. I always enjoyed bleak novels during the times of my education, when humans were still deemed worthy enough of knowing anything which did not directly benefit their surroundings. However, none of those novels could have predicted this, and I could have never assumed I would instead become exactly what I hated the most in protagonists: passive. As the main character of my own narrative, I never dreamt of being just another pawn, a piece in the puzzle, a grain of the sand. Then again, no one does. Almost as if we are born with a built-in sense of superiority, the dire need to not only be different than the rest, but also better than them. The truth is bitter. The desire to carry on an imaginary legacy lives inside each of us, except it never manifests as anything more than population pollution. That was one of the first laws: UnPopulation. No more children, with no exceptions. I don’t remember the last time I heard the innocent laugh of a small babe; only the forced, curtesy laughs of adults who know too much to truly be happy. I don’t blame anyone; I don’t laugh anymore either. I guess humour is out ruled when you walk amongst future ghosts.
“Doctor Sanford will see you now.”
Are they aware of their own futility? Or do they genuinely think they are contributing to The Cause? Why have doctors for people who are destined to die as soon as they can do it themselves?
I prepared myself for the routine which was to follow: brain scan, empathy check, making sure recycling levels are constant, although what are we even recycling at this point? Most people have not a single object to their name, I certainly don’t anymore. I’ve given it all up now. It usually goes by quickly and I try not to think about anything, it is easier that way, less spikes on the brain activity scan. Sanford has seen me two times in a row; I have learnt to stop guess working, but a part of me still wonders if there is a shortage. If so, are they taking volunteers? I could sing up, infiltrate, go to examine the –
“Donated two point eight percent more glass than last month. Been drinking?”
Funny question; asked as if supermarkets weren’t the first things to be wiped out.
“No. They’re old bottles.”
He scribbles something down. I wait. The low hum of operating machines makes me ask myself why they have not yet eradicated technology. One would think electricity was more of a worry than aluminium gum wrappers. But that was a promise for next year’s election, assuming anyone would still be here to vote.
I show myself out, I already know the way. My report was good, not that it matters much, I have seven weeks left anyway.
Nowadays differentiating between towns, streets and even buildings is almost an impossible task. What once used to be recognised as the historical landscapes and monuments of Nottingham are now just unkept ruins. Where they had time, they knocked down the buildings and unpaved the roads, letting the biodiversity flourish. That was part of The Plan: “make the world a greener place”. I think if people knew what that really meant, they might have thought twice before placing their paper in the ballot box.
Poison ivy savagely invades the little glass windows not yet repurposed, and moss establishes itself on the foundations of what I think was Wollaton Hall. The wrecking ball did significant damage on the upper half, but the intricate architecture is not completely invisible. They said they would finish once they prioritise the Key Centres — London, York, Essex, and the coastal cities. Key Centres rate an astonishing eight out of ten on the Green Scale; Nottingham is only at a three. I wonder what those other places must look like, and how nature could possibly take over more than it already has.
They want no trace of mankind. Our cursed touch has already destroyed too much. I wonder what it’s like on the outside. Europe, America; have they too decided to abandon humanity? I hope not. It is comforting to know that after I go, there will be traces of my ancestors still intact, that life, somewhere, will go on. Many years ago we were scared of external factors exterminating our species, but we never considered the destruction might happen from within. The route from the clinic to what I now call home is daunting, and easy to confuse with the road leading to the edge of town. I tried to place specific rocks as a sort of guidance a while ago, but they keep disappearing. A natural pathway has formed, the grass surrendering and flattening under the prolonged pressure caused by my many footsteps, but every now and then I have to find a different route, to allow for revitalisation. I used to watch documentaries of film crews walking through dangerous forests, the most greenery I saw on the daily being on my usual drive passing The Arboretum. I never thought I would end up living in one.
My tent was set up securely this morning when I had left, but clearly not enough, the hand made wooden poles bowing down to the force of the wind. They aren’t the sturdiest, I’m surprised they even let me have them. I carved them with a sharp rock, they were fallen branches from a tree struck by lightning. We can use materials only when nature gifts them to us. I wonder how everyone else lives. In the beginning, there used to be meetings, gatherings of people wishing to rise up. With as little technology as possible, the usual surveillance was not in check, but it was not necessary. They made sure our allocated land patches were as far away from each other as possible, and many died trying to make it back home. Usually of thirst. People have stopped meeting now. There are a few families left, the ones from before. There is no need for new ones, plus I reckon only masochists would want to get attached to someone knowing it is ephemeral. I sometimes do, although I always stop myself. There is someone at the clinic, they have always been number eight. I tried to uncover whether the numbers are based on the alphabetical order of our surnames, but it is hard to tell. They always try to wait for all of us to gather until they start calling out our numbers. I never have as much time as I would like to look at number eight, they call everyone in so quickly.
I lie down on my pretend bed, a pile of hay which irritates the skin on my cheeks; if I had a mirror I would not have to look to know that they are flushed. I close my eyes, forcing myself to fall asleep. There isn’t much to do, daylight feels endless. It’s a surprise they have to ask us to end our days, I would think more people would take the decision themselves. Atropa Belladonna.
“Five more minutes” the nurse says, and I rest my head against the wall behind me. This used to be a pub, and it’s the only building which remains. For governmental purposes, of course. I look around, unwillingly trying to lock eyes with number eight. Since last month, the thoughts have grown stronger, and the need for organic eye contact has become more desperate. Three more weeks. How ironic, everything is organic now, except us. Failing my instinctual mission, I lazily allow my eyelids to drop. The hunger in the pit of my stomach nearly tricks me into smelling smoke. Oh the things I would do for a traditional barbeque right now. Burgers.. Steak..
“Fire!”
The doctors rush to reassure everyone, but it’s too late, everyone is scrambling for the door, swarming the exit. For a handful of people who are soon to cease existing, it’s funny to see how much they want to avoid death, even for those extra days, weeks, months. Even though there is nothing to do and no one to see. I guess there is some beauty, some gratification, in the mere act of staying alive. Being conscious, aware, existing. No one ever wants to die, not truly, deeply. If anyone ever tells you they crave death, they are lying. They don’t crave death, they crave change, even if that sometimes means a change in states of being.
I give up trying to lock eyes with number eight amongst the panic and the fright, so I focus my gaze lower down. I blink slowly to make sure I am not deceived, but I’d recognise those fingers anywhere, I’ve spent sufficient time month after month carefully observing them in the waiting room, although I’m convinced I could spend a life time, whatever that feels like. I’ll never get to know. I push myself though the mob of sweaty bodies and grab one of their hands, pulling them through the crowd and into fresh air. I don’t stop running or holding their hand, and they follow behind me until we reach a clearing, at enough distance from everyone else, although in what I think is the opposite direction from my house.
“Hello.” I manage to gasp whilst still catching my breath, no longer being able to distinguish my own panting and wheezing from theirs.
I guess this officially makes me a masochist.
