China sat on a bench under an isolated roof on the streets of Beijing, waiting for the taxi he had called to come. He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it, with dozens of toxins entering his system and infecting his body, reducing him into a coughing fit.
He sighed and closed his eyes. It was only a mere one hundred years ago when he had ocean-sized gardens and red-roofed buildings. Flowers bloomed and trees grew. Children obediently followed their mothers in open markets, laughing at the small, bamboo goodies that the stalls had on display. People smiled and greeted each other warmly, carrying conversations with interest and passion. Tea was poured and sipped with so much elegancy and grace. Various types of food was consumed and enjoyed, and his people were happy. They were so happy.
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But then, China had decided to trade with the westerners. He profited so much from the trade, his tea for their gold and silver. His country bloomed, his people richer than ever...until the westerners ran out of gold. They still wanted his goods, they had said. So they forced drugs onto him and his people, getting them high on the strange plant while they STOLE his tea. Oh, I am such a fool, China thought, to have trusted these westerners.
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And they cut up his body and reaped his wealth, leaving the former eastern power to bleed and rot. And just when he was recovering... China shook his head and buried his face in his hands. Those one hundred years...they were so shameful. His dignity was ripped from him, leaving a gaping wound that had only begun to heal. A tear slipped out of China's dulled, golden eyes and down his smooth, yet dirtied cheek. He just wanted to die. Was that too much to ask?
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China. A land of culture and history, they said. The nation himself scoffed. Right. That was what he once was. He had money, power, history, land, culture, and a language. He thought he still had that. But...why did every tourist who visited him leave with a frown and a disappointed face?
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China slowly looked up and squinted. The sky was gray and hazy. His once beautiful gardens were replaced with high-rises and honking cars. His people pushed past each other and cursed. They glared at each other with distrust and superiority. Men fought and spat on the streets, and women dressed themselves in materialistic clothing, strutting down the sidewalk quickly and briskly, with no consideration for others. Another tear fell down China's face. He might still have money and power...but he was looked down upon by his own siblings. The westerners hated him, calling him a rude barbarian who just needs to die. They laughed at him and stepped on him while looking up to his little brother in admiration. What did he do to them, other than wish for peace? Not once in his life had he attacked someone else. Only himself. Because that's whom he despised.
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His taxi finally came. The driver scowled at him and asked where he wanted to go. China told him, and he drove. The driver dropped him off and overcharged him. China still paid, and the driver drove off. The Chinese country stared off after the car and a third tear slid down his cheek, then a forth.
A fifth.
A sixth.
Too many to count.
Thunder roared in the distance, and rain dripped on his face, washing away the tears, but not the pain. The raindrops came harder, and China was soaked. He kneeled and touched his head onto the dirty, cemented ground. Why did this have to happen to him? Why couldn't he just disappear and hide away from the shame? Why, why, why?
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What happened?
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Where did my country go?