Innocence, what was innocence? It was those sweet, summer days when we would listen to the Sony radio on our front porch and sing along to every song, no matter if we knew the words to it or not. It was those fogy, autumn afternoons when it was chilly outside, keeping everyone inside by the fire. It was those times when we would write crimson love letters to those silly boys we thought we loved. Innocence was the song of the mockingbird that used to live.

Innocence, all true innocence was lost the day that oak tree died. We had owned it: the very last tree in the entire world.

Humans and their greed had taken the rest cut them at their roots, spilling their sweet, vital life onto the pavement. I can't explain why it died. It was healthy the day before. I hate to be accusing but the only thing I can think of is that the government poisoned it in the night. Citizens of The City of Angels had worshipped that tree and now, the last remaining good on Earth, the reminder of how things used to be, was gone.

Gone, and so with it, the innocence.

I don't know why it's called The City of Angels. It's not angelic, now is it heavenly at all. Just clusters of mind-blowingly tall buildings, paneled in glass mirrors. When the city council first showed us the plans for it, we all thought it was beautiful. Our viewpoint twisted once it was built. We had no idea that they had changed the plans during construction, getting rid of all the trees and adding more, taller buildings.

I rescued the last tree. I found it in a dump pile with stacks upon stacks of chopped-down trees. It was the only one with most of its roots still intact, a salvageable treasure.

The world has changed in the last twenty years. After The City of Angels was built, this idea of skyscraper metropolises grew, spreading in all directions. Trees and animals were normal things and the rain used to stop every once and a while. Now, it just comes down, always pouring, pouring, pouring. It never stops beating on the shiny windows of the skyscrapers. No one knows why, not even the city council. Many think the world is angry at us and what we've done, plaguing us with its never-ending showers. Those who lived through the change, those few who lived in the Old World, know what the sun is.

I remember the last time I saw it. My skin was a golden brown back then, tanned from the gentle luminescence. Now, it is pasty white, just like everyone else's.

My son was born with a slender tone of brown in his skin from Old World genes, but after seven years of no sun, it was ashen. He helped me, without fear, carry the dead tree inside from the balcony rooftop of our thousand-story apartment building. With little strength in his unseasoned body, my son was thankful we owned the top floor.

Fire was outlawed several years back but we burnt it anyway with a lighter I had hidden away, letting the smoke waft through the leaky cracks in the glass ceiling. My son wasn't scared at all when he saw the fire. He had never seen it before. I showed him how to burn himself and let him scorch the skin on his palm. I wanted him to feel pain, knowing he would never feel it again. No one ever felt pain anymore so it was a pleasant experience when it did happen.

I watched as the smoke lifted the innocence through the ceiling, holding my child close to my side. The innocence was gone forever now. The last traces of nature lifted away as the flames bit happily at m outstretched hand.

Soon, the world will loose all shreds of the Old World. People like me who lived through the revolution will die off, killing off all memories of innocence.