The unique tang of oil hangs heavy in the air as the raw crude seeps from the base of the drilling pipe, spreading a toxic shadow across the ocean floor. Above, workers on the platform exchange uneasy glances as the excess gases are burnt off, creating a haze that stings their eyes and lungs. The oil company’s “acceptable” waste becomes the invisible enemy, poisoning the air and water with each passing minute. Far below, the leak grows, unnoticed by most, but deadly for the creatures who call this place home.

Here, the crude is separated and refined, its elements divided for various industries. Waste is diluted into the water stream, the company’s protocols ensuring pollution remains within “acceptable” limits. Trucks rumble down roads lined with stray plastic wrappers and shattered bottles, the signs of plastic’s omnipresence. The factories churn, transforming minerals and oil into pellets, then washing the waste into rivers and landfills. Every stage is marked by invisible loss—small leaks, chemical spills, and the gradual poisoning of land and sea.

The plastic is cooled, shaped, and readied for distribution. Waste is swept into landfills or flushed through drains, destined to seep into water streams. Pallets of bottles are loaded onto trucks, their journey just beginning. The cycle is relentless: plastic created in minutes, destined for moments of use, then centuries of decay. As the rain falls, microplastics escape, carried toward the sea, unnoticed by the world that demanded their existence.

Seven minutes of convenience: a cold drink, a moment of refreshment, then the bottle is tossed aside. Some are repurposed, most forgotten, left to be buried in landfills for millennia. The rain washes over piles of trash, carrying bits of plastic back toward rivers and oceans. The cycle, driven by human need, is indifferent to its consequences, leaving behind scars both visible and hidden.

Polly rises for air, lungs burning with toxic gases, coughing as she breaks the surface into a sky thick with soot. Ervin, blinded and wounded, peers out, tears streaming as he senses danger. The pair did not choose this fate; their bodies bear the scars of humanity’s waste, their suffering an unspoken plea. "Why must the world be so cruel?" Polly’s thoughts echo as she struggles to breathe. "I wish I could see the ocean as it was," Ervin whispers, his hope fading in the darkness.

Rescuer kneels beside Polly, brushing away oil and plastic. "There are two over here, poor things, you are safe now," he murmurs, voice soft with compassion. Polly is taken to a sanctuary, where she can heal but never forget. Ervin, his eye damaged beyond repair, is placed in a pet store tank, a curiosity behind glass. Though help has come, the scars remain; Ervin's vision lost, Polly's journey forever altered. Their story, like so many, is drowned by the tide of ongoing pollution.

The cycle continues, each stage echoing the same tragedy—a seven-minute convenience, a lifetime of consequence. As the reader finishes, seven minutes have passed, but for Polly, Ervin, and countless others, the story endures for ages. The world turns, indifferent, but the ocean remembers every scar.