From Their Perspective

Pete was the first one to die. He always considered himself to be the "grumpy-old-man" of the group but, in reality, couldn't say a bad word against anyone. His kindness led him to have this twisted belief that the humans weren't all bad, that they weren't dumping plastic into our homes. He nearly convinced us. Then he ate 17 plastic bags, thinking they were food, and choked to death. He flew to our ocean, crying out for his friends but all we could hear was a splutter and cough from above the waves. When we finally found him, his heart of gold had stopped. My hatred for the humans sprouted from the soil.

We all heard the melancholic anthem of the whale soon after Pete's death. We listened to the notes, all under the impression that it was a tragic love song, and danced, forgetting about the desecration for a few hours. Then we heard the birds from above the surface, shouting their stories so everyone could hear. A Bryde's whale had been found dead on a beach with its stomach filled with plastic. It happened again. Those despicable humans had refused the listen to the scientists reasons and carried on ruining our lives. There was only one thing to be glad of now. At least the whale hadn't died in the water, then we'd all be swimming in the plastic it had eaten. My hatred grew a bud.

The birds were the next to go. We noticed when the announcements stopped. When we no longer woke to the sounds of screeching, only to the sound of unfamiliar silence, we wondered what had happened. In my mind, there was a voice saying that the humans were behind it but chose to ignore it. My ignorance was misplaced. We finally got news that they were dead, all of them. They had landed on the skin of the sea to rest, throats sore from screaming but happy. Happy people don't deserve their fate. After a brief conversation, they tried to fly away but got stuck, feet tangled in the plastic. No one could've helped them. They died of starvation and we didn't even know. My hatred began to bloom.

I am alone now. Everyone is dead. Another whale, a sei whale this time, was found on a beach. Its stomach had been lacerated by a DVD case, stopping it from eating. A sperm whale died too, its intestines were blocked by 37 pounds of plastic. My mother, brothers and sisters were the last to go. They did nothing wrong. All they were doing was eating, they didn't know it was plastic, they didn't know it was indigestible. Now they're dead. First it was kind old Pete, then the confused Bryde's whale, then the upbeat birds, then the serene sei and sperm whales. Now my innocent family. My hatred is now in full bloom, the humans don't see what they are doing to us. I'm drowning in plastic and its all their fault.