For My Children
Why? Why did they sit idly by, allowing foolish men and women to make such great mistakes? The skin on his knuckles paled as he clutched the yellowed sheets. Morning had come, but he lacked any will to get up. There was no point in the end. America slowly curled into a ball, forming an akward lump under the ratty piece of cloth that served as a comforter.
Did they not know that their inaction was just as destructive as outright waging war on themselves? How could they not realize that they were destroying him, crushing his dreams? He rubbed his nose against his pillow in an attempt to ignore the ache in his chest. They were his people; they were his loved ones. He had taken them willingly, practically told the other countries to send him their unwanted children! Despite this, they were doing nothing to help him when he needed them most.
He was young. So terribly young and already he was falling apart. No one wanted to save America. At least, no one was willing to take the first step and make themselves heard. Everything that had once made him great, strong, and so damn proud was gone. They were stripped away, leaving a bare soul behind without a form of protection. He was alone.
Tucked away in a corner apartment in a dirty city, America gave in to temptation and gave himself a moment of weakness that would bring him much ridicule if the world ever found out. Tears pooled in his eyes while his teeth clenched, but he was unable to give himself much more than that. They had left him so drained.
People still had such absurdly grand ideas of what he was and how life in his country would be. None of that was real. Americans starved. Americans lived in one room, rundown motels with their families while working everyday of the week just to scrape by. His people were cold, cruel in their indifference to the suffering of the person beside them. Justice was a fraud and unity was a joke told in poor taste.
Yet, somehow, he pitied the disillusioned ones the most. The people who took a better look at the cities around them, finally seeing what laid underneath the false promises of hope and betterment, usually became so lost. He could never keep from feeling as if he had personally failed them when none of it was under his control at all.
The sound of someone pounding their fist upon his door flooded his bedroom, causing the young man to cringe. He was behind in payments for the apartment again. No matter how hard he tried, he could never get ahead on his bills. Everywhere he turned there were creditors waiting with palms open for cash he did not posses. America could not keep his own children fed, what made anyone think he had money to throw away at whim?
He was not even 300 years old yet! Why did his people get him into situations that he could not escape from without a care about the consequences? Did they just think to themselves, 'LOL, Fuck the effects. Lets do this" and then hop onto the next bright, shiny idea?
America rolled onto his back, glaring angrily at the drooping ceiling. Even the American Revolution had only been led by a single third of the total population. Another third was against the war while the last third did not care either way. That in itself should have been a sign.
All the increasing restrictions on their lives and only 33% of the population saw the problem with that. It did not even bother him that 33% never wanted to leave Britian. He could understand them not wanting to leave the country that protected them and their families were raised in. It was the 33% that did not care either way that angered him.
How could you not care?! Your country is on the brink of something bigger than any one person and you just chose to shrug your shoulders and stand under the victor's flag like you had been there from the beginning? A heavy sigh slipped from his lips as he turned on his side. He eyed the nightstand that held his glasses while his mind continued onward.
Were his people too doubtful or afraid to do anything? A single vote could change so much. America wondered if his children even knew that on one cold day in October of 1774, the thirteen colonies had nearly decided to follow Joseph Galloway's Plan of Union. It would have left the colonies as a part of the British Empire with a sort of parliament that worked with Parliament. They would have veto power over the other which would have given the colonist some say in their own affairs. The American Revolution almost never happened. Five votes were for the plan while six were against it.
A single vote changed the course of history.
America heaved himself up, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. Shadowed eyes dropped to the glasses that sat innocently beside him. Then, as if to add insult to injury, his own states were considering running away! He had fought his hardest for Texas and now it was willing to turn its back like it had never been there from the start. What was even worse was the fact that others thought this a great idea.
The young man stood up sharply and made his way to the cardboard box that held his unwashed, yet useable clothes. He slipped on the once pristine white button down shirt over the tattered tanktop he slept in. His black trousers were fading to a dark gray and the black dress shoes that hid in the corner of the room were scuffed beyond belief.
They were all so unwilling and yet he still tried his hardest to do something. Anything. America was willing to put the shattered remains of his pride aside and go ask the other countries for help. Rough fingers did their best to straighten his bedhead in front of the small mirror that hung crookedly on the wall beside the door. The old determination that had not lead him wrong through the years was present under the dirt and grime. He would do this for his children and the children of his children.
America turned on his heel to sneak out the window to avoid his landlord when he paused, one leg lifted in the air. It was a quick decision to reach over and pluck his glasses from the nightstand. He would do it, but he would do it without leaving anyone behind.
Not even those that wished to abandon him. He was America, and he would be damned if he ever gave up.
Author's Note: This has been bothering my so much lately. What the fuck are we American's doing (or not doing)?