Breathe In, Breathe Out

By: Audrey Yeung

“Let me tell you a story”

My siblings and I shuffled closer, gathering around Grandfather. His stories were my favourite part of the day. He leaned down to speak to us from his armchair.

Grandfather often spoke in hushed tones so as to not aggravate my mother, his daughter. According to her, my grandfather “shouldn’t tell the children make-believe stories” because it would “get our heads in the clouds when they should be on the ground”. Well, the joke’s on her. I was born with my head in the clouds. But my grandfather insisted that his stories were true. My siblings giggled whenever he would claim this, but as I watched his gaze harden, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some truth to his far-fetched stories.

“Once upon a time, there was a land, much like the land we live in now.” he started, whispering. He glanced over at the kitchen to make sure my mother wasn’t listening so he could continue.

“But, everything about this land was different. Everywhere you looked, there were green hills that rolled into each other, forests that stretched for miles, oceans so blue you couldn’t help but stop and stare,” he paused, checking to see that we were still listening. We were. Of course, we were. “In this land, there was a house.”

“Like this one?” my little brother interjected, his small hand patting the floorboard.

“Yes, like this one,” Grandfather replied, smiling slightly.

“Continue the story,” I whispered. Grandfather nodded.

“In this house, much like this one, in every room you went into, you could hear a chirping coming from outside. A bird’s song, making the most melodious sounds you have heard in your life. You could also hear the soft rustling of trees made by other animals. When you opened the window, you could let the air fill your lungs, tasting of freshness and calmness. And later on in the day, you watched the sunset, filling the sky with streaks of orange, pink, and purple, before the moon rose and stars replaced the strokes of colour.”

“Dad!” my mother shouted. She had just exited the kitchen and heard the story. “Please stop with the stories. They don’t need to be hearing this.”

She pulled my siblings to the makeshift beds, tucking them in quickly.

“But we want to hear the story!” my little sister protested.

“Go to sleep,” my mother said firmly. She turned to me. “You too,”

I knew better than to argue, so I took my place next to my siblings and pulled the blanket over my body. I wasn’t very tired, but knew that my mother wouldn’t leave until I was asleep. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep.

“Dad, you have to stop with the stories,” my mother whispered. “You can’t put those things in their heads. They can’t spend their lives thinking about make-believe.”

“They’re not make-believe. They’re true.” Grandfather said softly. My mother didn’t reply. He didn’t say anything else.

That was five years ago.

I sat on the floor, looking at the empty armchair, wishing Grandfather was here to tell another story. But he hasn’t told another story, sat in that chair, for five years. The story about the house and the birds was the last one I heard. I was seventeen now, and the one who had to work ever since my mother fell ill a few years ago. I put on my gas mask and headed outside. The air was thick and hot, “like a summer that lasts forever”, as my mother would tell my siblings. Yeah, I thought, a summer laden with all sorts of toxins. My grandfather learned that the hard way when he forgot his gas mask and stepped outside. It had taken only a few minutes for the chemicals to seep into his body, but hours had passed before we found him on the ground, when Mother went to get groceries. Food is scarce and money is even more so. We’d be lucky if there were anything fresh in the market. The last time that happened, we acted like we had just won the lottery.

I brought back dehydrated packages of food that often looked bad and tasted worse. I had also managed to get a couple of apples that were only half rotten. After all, two good halves make one whole. I tossed the gas mask to the corner and glanced out the window. It was bolted shut - couldn’t risk the little ones opening it accidentally - and slightly fogged up. The sky was a mix of grey and orange, but not the orange in Grandfather’s story. This orange was disturbing and intrusive, and it just felt wrong. The green hills Grandfather spoke of are non-existent. At least back then, there were still small patches of grass that I pretended were mountains. Now, the colour green is something only of dreams. So is the colour blue. Any body of water I see now is varying shades of grey or brown. Including the water I drink. And the flash flood last week.

The house is quiet because everyone has gone to sleep even though it’s the middle of the day (I assume, the sun is barely visible). I step over my little brother to my own corner. One of the last things my grandfather told me before he died was the location of his old photo albums. My mother had hidden it from us without telling us why but apparently my grandfather recovered it and hid it himself. Now, I keep them under the floorboards near my pillow. I was planning on looking through them with my grandfather and since he died, I’ve barely touched them. It was about time I did. I carefully removed an album and flipped to the first page. My grandfather, in the middle of laughing. God, how I longed to see him again. Next page, a woman standing in front of a house. I traced the outline of my grandmother who I never met. The next page was in colour. Green hills, blue sky, and frolicking animals in the distance. Not a single skyscraper in sight. I marvelled at the scene. It was just like Grandfather’s story. I never truly believed him, but this! This is proof that he was telling the truth. I couldn’t fathom how our world could become so different. In the place of hills, were ominous buildings that glowed in the night. In the place of blue skies, were clouds of smoke and gases. In the place of animals, were carcasses. How could we have let this happen?

I wondered where Grandfather was now. Maybe he has returned to those hills, reunited with my grandmother. Wherever it was, it had to be better than this. I remember when the smoke first arrived when I was four and my siblings hadn’t been born yet. The streets were crowded and panicked, while factories continued to pump out chemicals into the air. My hand was clamped around my nose and mouth because even at that age I knew what was happening. I could see people dropping like flies all around me.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine those hills and skies, and my grandfather right outside the door, arms open with another story to tell. I breathed in the clean air and out one final time, and stepped outside.

Context: In the current state of our environment, I've always imagined what it would be like to live in a world where there was no turning back - humans had destroyed the environment so much that it was irreversible. I wrote this story as a sort of dystopia, where the world was truly in the midst of a climate crisis, and I hope that it serves as a warning for how human behaviour can negatively impact the environment.