Red.
White.
Red.
White.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5,….131.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5,….one hundred and thirty…two.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!
Snap.
Red petals fell to the ground.
.
That's better.
.
Red. White. Red. White.
This is his garden, his precious treasure.
The place where his friends would dance among the flowers, hiding behind their petals.
The place where he could relax and drink his tea in silence.
This is his garden. Those who have seen it are amazed. Those who have seen it are envious.
They should be, after all, he loves his garden greatly.
.
Red. White. Red. White.
His garden is littered with rows upon rows of reds and whites.
He arranges them so carefully, so neatly, that they both receive the same amount of love.
He kisses each of them every day.
He gives them plenty of water.
He makes sure the sun bless every single one of them.
…and he counts them, over and over again, making certain that they are the same amount.
That one colour is not more than the other.
.
It keeps him sane.
.
Red. White. Red. White.
The boy had told him once, the boy who he used to love just as much as the roses (it is no longer the case now, because that same boy had caused his heart to bleed, and while roses have thorns, they would never hurt him)
"Hey England, do you know that we got the same national flower?"
He blinked. The same? Certainly not, America. You may share the rose with plenty of other nations, but my rose is different. It is not just any rose, it is the Tudor Rose! They are mine and mine only!
Startled by the other's reaction, the boy raised his hand in defence, "Relax dude, I'm just saying. I thought you'd like to know that we share something after all."
You don't understand. You'll never understand. The red and the white. They are not to be shared (not to be kept apart).
They are mine and mine alone.
.
Red. White. Red. White.
Sometimes he likes to paint them. Like the Queen of Hearts who ordered her subjects to paint the rose. He is inspired by her (Lewis told him once, his rose garden was what inspired him, but England was certain he never painted his roses before).
He does it so delicately that all the red roses turn into white, and all the white roses turn into red, and everyone is fooled.
.
France caught him in the act once.
"What are you doing?" he asked. Expression all serious for once.
Painting. Can't you see?
"I mean, why are you doing this?"
Because…Because what? He doesn't know the answer himself. Maybe because he has fallen into Wonderland? Or what? What does it matter?
As long as they are still red and white, it's fine, right?
When he gave no answer, France left and never asked him again.
.
Red. White. Red. White.
There was a pink one. A small pink bud that came out of nowhere. His hand shook as it reached for the small bud, unsure of what to do.
Should he cut it?
A pink among seas of reds and whites. A blasphemy! An ugly being!
But! But pink is the result of a union of red and white.
A union…that the red and white would become one…
…is this not what he wanted?
.
.
.
Pink fell and was swallowed by brown earth. And blue tears marked her grave.
.
Red. White. Red. White.
He awoke with a jolt that night. Breathing ragged and drops of sweat rolling on his pale skin. He clutched his head with both his hands.
There were voices. He could hear them. Inside his head.
Again.
Please, please, make them stop.
He cried to no one in particular.
He screamed if only to overcome the voices.
Then a flash of light momentarily blinded him and a loud boom wiped the voices away for a split second, before they came back again like tidal waves. He looked through his window and horror struck him.
He ran outside.
Amidst the voices, he could hear his roses crying.
What he found was a sea of reds and whites (and green, green leaves) all strewn mercilessly by the wind. He dropped to his knees then and there. Not caring the thorns that dig through his thin clothes or the fact that he was soaked to the bone.
He wailed.
And the voices continued inside his head.
.
His brother found him still sitting there by day (when the wind, and the rain, and the thunder had passed). Patches of blood blooming on his clothes and hands. Still sobbing. England heard the footsteps and looked at him with eyes full of tears.
"What should I do? They are all destroyed. What should I do? They won't stop!"
And in a rare act of familial affection, he held England close to his chest and silently comforted the sobbing mess in his arms.
(He looked at the thousands of petals lying in front of him, covering the brown earth with their reds and whites, and all he could see were his younger brother's flesh and blood and green, green eyes.)
.
Red.
Licked through the earth, wiping everything in its path clean.
.
White.
Wisps of smoke danced in the air, sending the remains to high heaven.
.
And when the red and the white had disappeared,
.
Black.
Was all that remained.
.
Green.
Scanned the scene in front of him, bags of red and white rose seeds on his hands.
.
"Oh well, I'll just have to start over again."
.
A/N: The idea came to me while I was looking at a list of country's national flowers, and I've been wanting to try writing in this tyle for a while, so this is what happened. Though I'm pretty sure I butchered the grammar here...uh, please do tell me if I did.
I'm pretty sure most of you already know about the Tudor Rose, which came about when Henry Tudor brought an end to the Wars of the Roses (which is an English civil war). Somehow I imagine England adopting this obsession with red and white roses and keeping them equal after that, and he becomes a little bit crazy when the balance is lost.
And America isn't the only country who has the rose as their national flower. Iraq, Bulgaria, and Ecuador also use the rose (if Wikipedia is to be trusted).
It also got me wondering if England is the only country that doesn't use a real flower as their national flower?
And as a side note, I kind of did this in a hurry because I found it appropriate to post this today, because today is 11/11/11. Look England, it's balanced XP
...and why won't FFnet let me make normal line breaks? *annoyed*