Struggle; it was always a struggle.
Such a sadness as well. Never had children shown such darkness, deceit or deadly sides. All ten billion of them had worked against her, and as their mother she was left utterly obliterated. Each electrical item, each piece of rubbish, each grain of power was a blow. A blow with the sharpest sword against the weakest part of an opponent. Except all parts were weak. And all children were in enmity.
Their world had been blasted into a thousand tiny shreds of a once vast empire, but this was a two way street. Never once had any individual paused to think of her world, being tossed and scattered on the wave of her greatest tsunami.
Even the strongest have a limit, when the weight gets just a tad too much to bear. Her neighbours? Silence. The One of War, the One of Heat, the One of the Rings, the Giant. None had come to her aid or offered an olive branch to her children. It had all come to an end. Like watching a beautiful flower: she blooms and stands proud, then a storm rains down, and she dies along with any beauty or sign of hope.
Gone was the greatest and most fascinating species in the entirety of space and time. Their house itself uninhabitable. The eminent savants of that world had been unable to foresee what the future held for their sons and daughters.
History had never been their strong point either. Theories were all they had conjured in their not-so-brilliant minds, yet that deepest and most necessary recess had never quite been reached. As a result of their narrow minded brains, never had they opened wide the doors to the unthinkable. Clues were all she had been able to provide, subtle hints. But never had the professors uncovered the truth. Heat was her excursion, rain her tears, hail her anger.
Those learned infants were the Churchills and Stalins raging a one sided war. Only in this modern adaptation, it was a war against a pacifist.
As the generations and civilisations rose and fell, the being herself – almost imperceptibly – aged and became weaker. In the beginning it had been a heaven on Earth, almost. During her adolescent years the children were ignorant of all, but in their unknowingness achieved a rare kindness and generosity. Middle age was when the first trumpet sounded and the soldiers began their major march. With no warning whatsoever, the beginning of the end began to unfold.
That particular period came and went, and old age set in. He was a harsh and dreadfully cruel master, taking the flesh and blood and beating his subjects to a pulp until they begged for mercy and relief. Always it came, eventually.
The humans, too, drained her, bled her dry. Her resources were the best source of nutrients, her one secret that would remain concealed until the final stand. The young ones had left well alone, and respected her private matters. A mutual understanding had grown between them, a deep friendship. The later children showed no such respect for their elder; they drilled, sawed and absorbed all drops of the elixir.
Even when the end was nigh, they would not let off their ruthless pursuits. On the Day of Judgement, they stole from her that solitary drop that was hidden right in the inner sanctum. The indefatigable diggers found it, and used it for their already corrupted lifestyles. That day, they sent just that little cloud too much of polluting material into her blackened lungs. They were so imprudent.
The peak of the mountain had been reached, and the descent could begin.
The Earth had been a strong piece of work, once. Yes, the finest in the entire Universe.