American Revolution
I woke as soon as I heard a gunshot.
Who would shoot a gun this late? I thought, sitting up. I felt the rain falling down heavily. W-Where am I? I thought, as I looked around the surrounding area. No! It can't be. Please no…
I stood up, and ran, relying on the sounds of gunshots to get around.
I stopped, staring in front of me.
It was me and England. I was pointing my gun at him.
The Revolutionary War…
"Hey Britain, all I want is my freedom!" I heard my younger-self yell. "I'm no longer a child, nor your little brothers from now on, consider me independent!"
Please! I thought. Please, I don't want to see this… I want to close my eyes, scream at them to stop, something, something to stop them.
I stared at the younger versions of me and England. We were both trembling, it be from the sharp pain of the rain, or the fear of shooting family, I couldn't tell nor did I want to.
Both of them stared at each other sternly, my younger-selves eyes were filled with anger, and England's held disbelief that I was raising my gun at him.
How much courage did it take to raise that at him? A lot. England had raised me, put up with my complaining, whining, my childishness, and what did I repay him with? Betrayal.
They both stood still, rain pouring down on them, and then England ran toward the younger-me, his gun aimed towards my face, if I hadn't blocked it with my own, I could've bled to death, but blocking, caused it to fling into the air, leaving my younger-self weaponless.
"Stop! Don't do this!" I yelled at the top of my lungs, but they couldn't hear me, so I tried to run. I couldn't run either; my feet were planted to the ground.
England panted before yelling, "I won't allow it! You idiot why can't you follow anything through to the end?"
"Ready! Aim!" the soldiers raised their guns to England, ready to shoot if he did anything.
He stared at the tip of the sharp blade, most likely wondering if England was going to shoot, but to his surprise, he lowered it. "There's no way I can shoot you, I can't." England dropped to his knees, starting to cry, "Why? Damn it why? It's not fair." He choked out.
Why am I here? I thought, as I wiped a tear away. Why am I here God damn it! I don't want to be reminded of this! I don't want to…
"You know why." He explained sadly. "What happened? I remember when you were great."
I dropped to the ground, my legs not able to help me stand any longer, and I cried, like I hadn't in years and years.
People say tears are salty because salt heals wounds. I now understand what it means.
A/N If anyone wants me to write more chapters, then I gladly will, but if no one says anything, then I'll let it be.
This may be different what other people thought, America leaving him because he wanted to be seen as an equal to England, or he did because he loved him.
But if it were me, I would have a hard time trying to face the past [Like I had wrote America]. Especially if I saw the person on a daily basis.