#plantentuin

Spite, Deeply Rooted

My colleague Charles had never really believed that back before I started working at the botanical garden, I’d been part of the team that invented the regenerating fluid we often used to revive plants. Originally, the fluid had been developed to restore species at the brink of extinction, especially those with specific properties advantageous to human health. As long as there was still a hint of life in them, we could save them—but whenever I referred to my university past, Charles probably assumed I’d made the coffee for the scientists, if anything at all.

I knew the value of my achievements, knew that the initial spark of the idea that led to the assembly of a team had been my own; I didn’t need Charles to acknowledge any of that. But even though I had nothing to prove to that guy, we did work together practically every day, and part of me wanted to be seen.

I could tell you that I was inspired by the sight of ripped leaves or brown spots in the greenhouse and simply wanted to help the plants, but what really motivated me to work on a new experiment was Charles’ condescension. I understand now that I took it too far: when I realised that the solution I sought lay in fusing animal material to plant matter, my easiest source of cells without a cell wall was my own human skin, which I was constantly shedding anyway, and therefore didn’t value as much as perhaps I should.

Not every experiment has the desired result; that’s why they’re experiments. Charles laughed at the monstrosity I’d grown amidst the giant water lilies, with its twisted claws and long human tongues. But this morning, when one of those wriggling tongues licked right across Charles’ face and left a trail of slimy latex and irritating hair, I was just as proud of this particular result as I’d been of the one that still continues to save lives.

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