“Medicine” Can't Stop

Old Wang was once again sitting on an empty waiting chair in the hospital, he was used to it. Ever since the notice "Imported drugs withdrawn from public hospitals" was posted, the place had become eerily quiet. In the past, it was crowded with anxious patients and their families, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and unease, but now, only the cold wind whistling in the corners and Old Wang's heavy breathing could be heard.

Old Wang's old ailment had flared up again. This kind of illness wasn't fatal, but it was persistent. Taking the imported medicine could keep him functioning like a normal person, but now, imported medicine had become a legend, only found in small pharmacies on the streets at staggering prices. It wasn't that Old Wang didn't have money, but he felt that buying the medicine felt like buying into inequality.

He remembered the day when the department director patted him on the shoulder, his tone tinged with helplessness: "Old Wang, you have to understand, it's national policy, supporting domestic products, it's for our own good." The director even pointed to the poster on the wall that read "Support domestic products, everyone's responsibility," with a cartoon character smiling particularly brightly.

Old Wang didn't smile. He asked the director, "Then what about my medicine?"

The director pointed to another brand of medicine, saying, "This one has a similar effect, it's cheaper, and it's domestic."

Old Wang held the box of medicine, looking at it again and again. The box was printed with a blooming sunflower, which seemed a bit tacky compared to the simple packaging of the previous imported medicine. But he took it anyway.

After a week, Old Wang's symptoms not only didn't improve, but worsened. He felt like a plant transplanted to barren soil, slowly withering away.

He came to the hospital again, only to find that the once familiar pharmacy was now just an empty window. A note was taped to the window, with a scrawled message: "Domestic replacement, beneficial to the country and the people."

Old Wang sighed, feeling as if he had been drawn into a huge absurdist drama, and he was just a dispensable supporting character. He looked at the doctors and nurses hurrying by in masks, each one of them seemed to be performing in a mime, with numb and stiff expressions.

He went to a small pharmacy on the street, where the owner handed him a box of familiar imported medicine, priced three times higher than before.

"Ah, that's how it is now," the owner said while taking the money, "who told our own medicine to be so useless?"

Old Wang held the medicine, feeling a mixture of emotions. He remembered the director's words, "Support domestic products, everyone's responsibility." The phrase was like a curse, lingering in his mind.

He thought, he probably couldn't bear this responsibility.

He returned home, opened the medicine box, and the pills inside looked like delicate bombs. He didn't know which one would bring him down completely, but he still swallowed them without hesitation.

That night, lying in bed, Old Wang, in a daze, felt like he had become a tiny seed, planted in a barren land, surrounded by medicine boxes printed with sunflowers, each one silently mocking him.

The next day, Old Wang didn't wake up. When his wife found him, he was clutching the box of imported medicine tightly in his hand, a strange smile on his face.

The doctor from the hospital arrived and sighed, "It's a pity, his illness was actually treatable."

And Old Wang, in that world, had finally found the "medicine" he needed, a "medicine" that could stop him from thinking, stop him from struggling, and stop him from feeling pain. His story ends here.

However, that night, a barely noticeable message appeared in the news report: "A domestic replacement drug produced by a pharmaceutical factory in our city has been found to have serious quality problems after testing and has been completely recalled."