Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

Long, too long America,
Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and
prosperity only,
But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing,
grappling with direst fate and recoiling not,
And now to conceive and show to the world what your children
en-masse really are,
(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse
really are?)

-Walt Whitman

For Amber Waves of Grain

Prologue

I don't remember the first time I saw him. As far back as I can recall, he's always just been there, right in the forefront of my life. I don't even remember anyone having to explain who this young blonde man was, or why he had more pull then the President. It's like I just knew. He was the embodiment of our country, and he was as beautiful as the land he was named for. Hair the color of sun kissed wheat and eyes as blue as the spacious skies that rolled over his 50 states.
Now I'm just reminiscing, like his looks have changed at all since then. I'm the one who's aged enough for the both of us. Crows feet around my once big and bright eyes, listless hair that once "shined like the Atlantic", and I'm now so thin that my hip bones jut out at uncomfortable angles.

I realize this is starting to sound like the ramblings of an old woman, but I need to get this down, it's of vital importance that my memoirs survive. I feel that the chain of events that led me, led us, to this current state of affairs is already starting to become blurred and corrupted. That can't happen. I'm only 27 years old and I can feel myself wasting away. My short life has been one selfish mistake after another and this is my last ditch effort to fix it. I'm already getting ahead of myself though (I have a tendency to do that). Let me slow down and start over.

I was born in Glasden, South Carolina on August 18th to John and Elinor White. My father was a Dentist and my mother a house wife. We were your typical, boring, middle class family in a very small, southern town. Since I had the "honor" to be blessed with big brown eyes, pouty lips, and silky hair the color of milk chocolate, pageants seemed to be my destination in life (What else was a Southern Bell to do?)

My older brother was a sergeant in the Army, stationed out of Fort Jackson. I remember my mom crying when he told us he had joined. She claimed we were in Conflict, he claimed it was his duty as an able bodied man. She said she couldn't lose her only son, he promised she wouldn't. She cried at his BCT graduation, and he beamed with pride as he hugged us all, shamelessly posing for my fathers camera. I remember the day he left for Afghanistan, he was so handsome and strong in his uniform. Familiar posters of that blue eyed man, donning the same uniform as my brother, were plastered all over the hanger. His smile was so bright and earnest that, I thought, as long as he was the tie that bound us as a nation, my brother would be safe and heroic. So I kissed him goodbye and told him I'd keep his truck company for him without a single doubt in my mind of his safe return.

9 months later I was driving that same truck in his funeral procession. I was 16 at the time, my worries should have been weather or not my hair would deflate when a tiara placed on my head, not how to eulogize my 20 year old brother. I tore up my notes immediately after, but I recall reciting cliched one liners whilst silently shouting retorts at my own words.

"My brother was a brave man.

He was too young.

He wanted to die for our great nation.

Please give him back.

I'm proud of his sacrifice.

I just lied.

God bless America."

These days, I count this as his first affront against my person. He was the one who was always so handsome on the recruiting posters that hung in every high school from sea to shining sea. Not to mention how charming he was on tv, how could my brother have resisted him when I myself spent hours in my room trying on pageant dresses in front of his pictures? Practicing my piano solos for his posters. Doing my hair and makeup while streaming his interviews and speeches on my laptop. He was probably an even bigger fangirl than I was. I find it a bit Ironic that the one thing we measured our self's against, ultimately brought us to our lowest points.

Although, at that time my poor brother had reached his rock bottom, I hadn't even found a shovel to start digging for mine. Half a year after the government handed my father a beautifully folded flag instead of a healthy son, he indirectly brought tragedy upon my family for a second time. It was a warm summer day when my mother decided to take her own life with my brothers old pistol. She just wasn't strong enough. I watched her waste away until she couldn't take it anymore. Back then, I felt so betrayed, I couldn't even fathom how she could have come to such a resolution. Whereas I could never take my own life, even after all that's happened, I feel I recognize the utter hopelessness she was feeling. I'll never agree with her decision, but I've taken a step to understanding it.

After the funeral, my father found me barricaded in my closet, shaking from heartbreak. I was clutching a blonde plushie in a bomber jacket to my hugged me, told me how sorry he was, and that my beloved mom and brother were happy and at peace with God. All the things he was supposed to say as a father to his young grieving daughter. But then he did something that has stuck in my brain as the turning point in my life. He cupped my face, gave me a sad smile and said,
"It's just you and me now, Dollface. I know this isn't how your life was supposed to start out, but I swear that I will do everything in my power to make your dreams come true." He pulled the plushie out of my grasp and placed one of my many glittering tiaras on my head. "You'll be the most beautiful Miss America this country has ever seen." I burst into years and threw my arms around him, holding onto both him and my precious plushie, as if they to would leave me like the rest of my family had.

That may have been the dumbest thing I've ever done, but I was young and I knew less then nothing. I great fully accepted my fathers promise with enthusiasm. What I should have done was snatch that stupid children's toy out of his hands and ripped its blond head off its uniformed body. What I should have done was tell him that becoming Miss America was the very last thing I wanted to do. America was the whole reason I had donned my black funeral dress twice in one year. America had promised my impressionable brother 5 gold stars on his lapel but dropped a mortar on his head instead. America drove my mom to the shed in our backyard, my brothers baby blanket in one hand and his 9 ml in the other.
But back then, my eyes were blinded by facts that just weren't true; My brother was a hero, and my mother a victim. I loved my country, and my lovely face, not my voice, was destined to represent my country.

My name is Virginia Rose, these memoirs tell the true story of how a beautiful blonde immortal stole my innocence, stepped on my heart, and made me into a bitter martyr.