Photosynthetic

By Cassandra Hamm

There are things they don’t tell you about having green skin. Like that you’ll always be parched. Or that when you have too much water, you’ll get a sugar high. Or that when you don’t get enough sunlight, you’ll wilt. Literally.

But I chose to become a Chlor—this way, my life will count for something. I guess it’s worth a few inconveniences.

Back pressed against a metal bench, I chug another water bottle. The liquid rasps down my dry throat. I almost choke with relief as my body changes the water and sunlight to glucose and oxygen.

Navarro is gray and bare, all metal and concrete and polluted sky. Hundreds of people trudge along the streets, no longer populated with cars and their pollutive transmissions. We can’t afford to ruin any more of our air supply.

The only sign of green—besides my standout skin—are the scrawny saplings lining the sidewalks, planted by desperate city leaders.  It’s a start, but you can’t force tree growth overnight.

Nearby, a man pauses his commute and bows. I shrink back. “Thank you for your sacrifice,” he says.

“Yeah, sure.” You’re just here to use me. Sure enough, his face loses its ghostly paleness as he comes near, consuming the oxygen I’m creating.

Others edge toward me, as if he’s given them permission to leech more oxygen off my atmosphere. Fine. As long as they don’t take anything else.

I’m one of ten Chlors stationed in Navarro to stop people from asphyxiating. The rainforests died ten years ago, all chopped down by corporate greed. Hypoxemia became an epidemic, so the science nuts at Proventia decided to give us volunteers photosynthetic capabilities.

I adjust my position on the hard bench. They could’ve at least given us better seating.

“Haylea! Hi!” A girl with forest-green hair pushes her way through the crowds.

Most people who frequent my sector are older, so I don’t usually have to deal with my old classmates. Usually.

“Hey, Alyssa.” I open another bottle and drink. The sugar spikes my energy, but not as much as usual. Cold temperatures slow down my chloroplasts. Plant problems.

Twirling newly dyed hair around her finger, Alyssa plops down next to me on the bench. No contact for three years, and now she wants to hang out?

Still, at least she recognized me. Most don’t, not that I blame them. I don’t recognize myself. Same dark afro, same brown eyes, but…

“So, what’s it like?” She gestures to my leaf-colored skin.

“I don’t know.” I stare at my fingers, once long and brown, now green and waxy. How can I explain all the changes that have happened since I took on plant powers? But she doesn’t really want to know anyway. “Cool, I guess.”

“That’s really great, Haylea.” Already her color’s improved. Good thing someone is benefiting from this interaction.

“So good to see you,” Alyssa says. “But I have a date with Sean Norton—remember him?”

The words I want to scream catch in my throat. Remember him? Alyssa, you slept over at my house and raided my fridge. Now you’re dating that racist jerk? Don’t you remember what he put me through?

Apparently not.

“Well, thanks for saving the world!” Alyssa stands, takes one more breath, and hurries down the crowded sidewalk.

I clutch the half-empty water bottle to still my hands. My mostly-transparent suit, meant to get as much light to my chloroplasts as possible, suddenly feels incredibly revealing. I whip my head around, afraid he is here, ready to follow through on the rape jokes he insisted weren’t a big deal.

A thud, then a groan. I twist around.

A guy is sprawled on the pavement, twitching.

Water bottle in hand, I jump to my feet and sprint over. My voice is hoarse despite my massive water intake. “Someone call 911!”

I flip him over. His face is tinted blue, cheeks covered in sweat. He gasps for breath.

It’s him.

Even without the cocky smirk, I’d know that face anywhere—Sean Norton.

I should walk away right now. Let the hypoxemia take him. It’d serve him right for tormenting me. Even now, I can hear his friends laughing as he hurls racial slurs and sexual innuendos at me on the way to class.

I shake my head. It was high school. Maybe he’s changed…

He made you want to die. And now you’re saving his life?

I shake as I remember nights spent contemplating the pills in the cabinet, the knives in the kitchen, the two-story jump from my window.

No one would blame me if he died. They’d just think my oxygen wasn’t enough.

But I would blame myself. God help me, if this is my superpower, my lot in life, then I’m going to help all the people I can. Even if they treated me like hell.

I pry his jaws open, wincing at the bluish tongue. It’s not a kiss. Holding back a gag, I press my mouth to his and breathe out, hard. Again. Again.

I pull away and throw back another bottle. Water sloshes in my stomach. Come on, photosynthesis, hurry up! If only the cold didn’t slow down my abilities.

I blow into his mouth two, three times. His face is losing its bluish tint, but I can feel his frantic heartbeat. Thudthudthudthudthud.

I pour all the oxygen I can into his twitching frame. Wake up!

His green eyes flutter open, lashes brushing his wet cheeks. He wheezes, but his skin isn’t blue.

I can’t help it. I smile.

Sirens sound, first distant, then close by. He still needs that ambulance. Even just a few minutes of hypoxemia could have damaged his organs, including his heart.

But he’s alive. Because of me.

“I forgive you,” I tell him.

Sean just blinks at me, probably totally unaware of my identity.

Then I drink the last of my water and stand, ready to save another life.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassandra Hamm is a psychology nerd, jigsaw puzzler, and hopeless romantic who spends most of her time lost in another world. She hosts Instagram writing prompt contests every other month. Her work appears in various anthologies, including Stories that Sing and Bingeworthy from Havok Publishing, Warriors Against the Storm, and Faces to the Sun. She suspects she may one day end up as a cat lady (or the owner of a Warrior Clan).

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