The Orange Inhaler


The great tree stood defiantly, facing the equally rebellious eight year old boy. It stood in the dry grasslands, not far behind his mobile home. It was not the tallest tree, for it was crooked. It was not the prettiest tree for it was rotten with an infestation from within and barbed with crumbling bark and deformities - but this tree was his. His alone in the angry face of the forest. The tree was not popular and other lone wanderers passed it with looks of disdain. An unforgiving axe had carelessly cut the tree, exposing it’s dull moldy interior and, misguided attempts to spray paint graduation years had led to illegible blotches of red and blue paint staining the tree. However the most peculiar aspect of this tree was how it stood alone in the clearing only accompanied by the patternless growth of old shrubs, tall grass and misplaced beer bottles. It was almost like it was shunned away by Mother Nature and had disappointed Father Moon. His thoughts were interrupted by his sudden heavy and desperate breathing. The tightness in his lungs grew painful every second. His hand hurriedly searched for the neon orange of his asthma inhaler, and two quick sprays sent his lungs into a temporary relief.
His father would have killed him if he knew he was here, telling him that this part of the forest was filled with pollen and dust and spores, not fit for the likes of him. But his mother knew and agreed with his request in a nonchalant shrug watching Family Feud and burping Pepsi in the same house where his father drank himself into a stupor in the shed. The boy hated his house. It was messy, dirty and smelled like sweat and powdered cheese. His “friends” had made fun of him for that. And the time when the shower stopped working for four days, everyone had cupped their noses at him, daring each other to take a whiff. The boy had promised himself not to cry that day but the younger kids had found him in the washroom damp eyed, a state which they’d never let him live down.

He shook his head as if to physically clear himself of this painful memory. He channeled his focus back on the tree with more determination than ever. This was the day, he thought. But this mindset held no power. This thought was almost ritualistic. He had said it everytime he was about to climb. But none of the climbs were fruitful, only yielding him scrapes on his knees and cuts on his palms. Nonetheless, to him, this was the day.
The boy cracked his knuckles and felt for a solid hand hold. He checked his breast pocket to assure his inhaler was still there and began the ascent. His whole body followed the routine, synchronized like a spider. Right leg -push, left leg-reach, left leg-push, right leg-reach. The boy’s unrelenting labour soon started a tightness in his lungs and, he unwillingly started to hyperventilate. Three painfully fast breathes failed to leave his lungs sated and the boy scampered down the tree, half falling. He fumbled for the inhaler to cure the asthma attack which threatened to take over. Fingers sprayed his inhaler until his lungs were quenched from their eternal fire, leaving him coughing. In the distance the treeline swayed under ominous winds, their stumps rising and heaving like crooked teeth in a mocking smile.
Furious, the boy, yet again, attacked the tree. He climbed as fast as he could. However, saw dust from the crumbling bark once again attacked his lungs, but the boy went on. He was ten feet above however ten more remained to be charted. The boy’s lungs burned with incandescent fury as hand hold after hand hold passed. The triple prong threat of dust and exertion and anger all pierced his lungs for air. His shoulders and quads numbed with the exercise and his left calf twitched to a cramp. But, he kept on climbing. His eyes brimmed with tears and his head lazily swung side to side with the lack of oxygen. But, he kept on climbing. After the eternity of torture his hand reached the top, where the trunk grew thin and spread with it’s many branches, twigs and leaves. The tree was unaffected here as the disease had not reached. His head cleared from it’s dizziness and his lungs were no longer in pain and breathed freely among the dust. The boy could see the tops of all the other trees in the clearing who seemed small and insignificant, cowering below his triumphant gaze. Was this a miracle? He felt the weight of the inhaler on his chest and seized it. He looked at the orange which had held him back for so long. The orange that had kept him from enjoying life. The orange which was the center of all the fights his parents had about medical bills and insurance. The orange that had fell him behind. He seized this orange and threw it; he threw it with all the strength an eight year old could muster. And, for the first time in days the boy smiled. His name was Marcus. Marcus smiled. And then he looked down and saw himself.