ASPARTAME

Alison Morris was seven years old when she first felt ashamed of being part of human society.

At school, the classroom had fallen into its usual morning rhythm, pencils scratching, pages turning, when a sharp thud cut through everything. Twenty small heads snapped up in unison, eyes darting from face to face until someone whispered, “Outside.”

Chairs scraped against linoleum as the children crowded behind their teacher toward the garden door. There on the concrete lay a bird, its rust-colored feathers still glossy in the sunlight, its small body perfectly still.

A happy wren had crashed into the glass walls of the corridor they used to go down to the cafeteria. Now she was just a wren, she wasn’t happy anymore.

Nobody was.

The teacher had a sad expression in her eyes but remained essentially impassive when she delicately took the once-happy wren in her hands and explained that unfortunately, that was not the first time such a tragic incident had occurred.

“But why?” someone asked with concern.

The response was blunt and matter-of-fact: birds were unable to recognize glass.

The children fell into a heavy silent, taking in the gravity of a piece of news that seemed to have no impact on the adults, but left them pondering and questioning its significance.

They stared with wide, disbelieving eyes at the lifeless body of that innocent creature. Who decided it would be a good idea to build a corridor made entirely of glass? And why had no one thought about the possible consequences?

Humans could stroll peacefully to the cafeteria basking in the warm natural light filtering through the glass, while birds could unfortunately die by crashing into it.

But alas: birds were not acquainted with the idea of ‘glass’; it was partially their own fault in the end, the adults’ indifference seemed to suggest.

So, the children learned an unintended lesson about collateral damage. And it was not a lesson they enjoyed.

They performed a touching and sincere ceremony for the poor wren. The burial took place under a cherry tree that had been planted by previous students.

Alison couldn’t help but feel envious of those children-now-turned-adults, as their legacy was marked by the beautiful tree in the garden. While all she and her classmates had left so far was the lifeless body of a little bird. They were all somehow responsible for its death, having attended the institute that, due to questionable design decisions, resulted in its demise.

The overwhelming weight of guilt and all its unpleasant emotions stayed with her, lingering in her mind and causing her to question the way people went about their lives.

As she pondered this, Alison began to realize that what was considered “normal” may not actually be so benign after all, but rather blindly accepted by everyone around her.

She couldn’t shake the thought that living without considering consequences would ultimately lead to the worst consequences.

The idea was constantly on her mind. Even now, years later, as she made her way to the introductory meeting staged by her new school, Alison found herself mulling it over.

The bus stopped at the red light and she gazed out of the window, mentally recording all the waste thrown into the ditch alongside the road. It was a revolting sight, the trash scattered around like discarded and forgotten dreams, a sad reminder of humanity’s destructive tendencies.

Her thoughts drifted back to that wren, buried under that cherry tree so many years ago. Alison couldn’t rid herself of the sensation that she, too, was soaring through the sky, completely oblivious to the lurking dangers around her.

When the bus began to move again, she unfolded Olivia’s letter again, smoothing the creases with her fingertips. The familiar handwriting offered a momentary escape.

“August 16, 20XX

Dear Lizzie,

your letter arrived just in time. I was drowning in Hesse’s “Narcissus and Goldmund” and definitely needed rescue.

Summer’s been electric here. New faces at every bonfire, midnight swims, and Mom’s perpetual sighing about my ‘nocturnal lifestyle.’ Worth it, though.

The calendar’s becoming my enemy. Thirty days (I refuse to say ‘one month’) until we’re prisoners of education again.

God, I’ll miss seeing your face every morning. But you’ll thrive at the new school. Those Eminent Institute zombies never deserved you anyway.

Oh! And Philip Young awaits. I don’t know much about him, but he seems like your type of weirdo :)

Love, O.”

Alison traced Olivia’s looping signature, a pink O shaped like a spiral galaxy, and smiled at the idea of meeting this celebrated Philip Young.