2:00 PM. The sun scorches the pavement of a busy three-lane avenue. People stand idly on the sidewalks, watching, murmuring, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. In the middle lane, between the relentless tide of cars, an opossum lies broken—hit, discarded, still breathing.
Its small body trembles with the last sparks of life, its chest rising and falling erratically, its limbs twitching in pain. A trail of blood stains the asphalt, a deep, dark red against the dull gray of the road. The scent of hot pavement and fresh death mingles in the air.
The city does not stop. Vehicles speed past without hesitation, their tires skimming just inches from the suffering creature. No one slows down. No one steps forward. The people on the sidewalks stare, their faces blank, their hands tucked into their pockets. Some raise their phones—not to help, not to intervene, but to document. To witness without acting.
If you ever need proof of human indifference, here it is, painted in blood on the street.
The opossum is no ordinary creature. It is Mexico’s only marsupial, a vital part of the ecosystem—a natural pest controller, a seed disperser, a species whose very existence benefits us all. Yet, to most, it is nothing more than roadkill, something dirty, something unworthy of compassion. A thing to be ignored.
How tragic, then, that a being so crucial to nature’s balance is left to die under our collective apathy. Not one of the bystanders reaches out to help. Not one driver taps the brakes.
Dr. Possum, as he has now been named, has suffered a severe traumatic brain injury. His skull is a shattered puzzle of bone, his fate hanging by a thread. Will he survive? No one knows.
What is certain is this: the cars will keep moving, the people will keep walking, and the world will forget.
But for that opossum—for that one soul gasping for breath in the middle of the road—this was the moment when humanity failed.