Alfred awakes on the anniversary of that day like any other. He eats breakfast, showers, and dresses as if the memories had faded, the scars healed. The sky is bright and blue and cloudless today, the air crisp and mild. Summer is departing, yet autumn has not made it's appearance, and it's how it should be. The streets are clean and bustling and noisy.
Eight years have passed, and he wants to forget--forget about the pain and suffering he and his people endured, though he knows he can't. The scars are still present, the pain vivid and real throughout every other tragedy and problem he's experienced. Nothing compares.
Nature, powerful and cruel as she is, cannot force upon him a disaster that hurts more than this. No amount of talking can reduce the fevers and night sweats and sporadic nightmares that haunt him.
Sometimes, when he is alone, Alfred finds himself in tears. Most of the time it's over the innocent--those citizens in the towers and on the planes. Other times he sobs over the realization that he is not as strong as he thinks. It's during these moments he finds it necessary to call Matthew or Arthur, Francis, even, just to talk, though he knows they find the event less traumatic than he.
And why shouldn't they? They didn't experience it. For them, it is talk, and news, and tears. So much has happened to them that surpass this, but they listen. They listen to every single world that falls from his shaking lips because for a proud nation such as himself, the pain is an eye-opener, and even if by tomorrow that realization is suppressed, it is there.
It's on the anniversary of that day that Alfred stays home and thinks. The objective: to remember.
All the small details strikingly clear. He remembers the sound of the plane crashing into the North Tower, the sight of fire whipping away at the structure, gaping holes and black smoke and paper. The white sheets are small, square dots in the sky, fluttering down from the heavens above. Then its people. They jump from the windows, trapped, and fall to the ground. There is another plane, this one crashing into the other tower. And when the South Tower collapses and smoke waterfalls from where it once stood, rising to dwarf the citizens of New York, he can feel his heart break. And when that cloud of pulverized gypsum and concrete and debris and smoke engulf Lower Manhattan to the loud, rooming roar of collapse, he cries.
His only solace is thinking of the heroes, those people he molded himself after--the firefighters and policemen and others, those who weren't professionals--Rescorla, Rodriguez, Zucker… brave individuals who risked there life for others.
Alfred remembers the silence that followed as people choked and coughed and tried to escape their death in the ashes which umbrellas them from the sun, shrouding them in complete darkness while they scream and call out for God--God who had forsaken them.
At this, the nation can feel the shadows of the aches and bouts of physical pain marking his nerves and the agony of open wounds that refuse to scar over. He'll be the first to admit it hurt.
As the dust clears, Alfred remembers, there is a blanket of soot covering everything. He looks up to where his beloved towers once stood to find their glory is gone. The debris covers the streets and there is no lack of ash and paper. Even his hair, though he had stood blocks away, is thick with it, his glasses rendered useless.
Reliving the experience opens the wounds he wished would finally heal. Unfortunately, he knows they won't ever.
And even when it's over, it's not. But Alfred wipes the tears from his eyes, takes a deep breath and plugs the phone back in. He takes a moment to regain his composure before dialing Matthew's number with shaky hands.
"Hey, Mattie!" Alfred exclaims as soon as he hears the younger Nation's voice on the other line, "It's been a while. How 'bout we go get some hamburgers? Sound good?" There is a moment of quiet as Canada agrees, naming a place. Alfred's reply is one of usual disinterest, yeah, sure. He doesn't continue on after this and instead hangs up, not even bothering to say goodbye.
As soon as the phone is down, he sighs, looking once more at the date on the calendar. More aches shoot through him, and his eyes water, but he is determined not to cry. He needs to be strong, he says, and so he smiles through the dismay, laughs through tears and jokes through pain. He grabs his jacket in preparation for lunch with Mattie, knowing that no matter what, he must stay strong. After all, he considers such his own little way of honouring those everyday heroes.
A/N: This was really hard for me to write, but I think that, regardless of whether Hetalia fans want to read about the dark side of history, it is something American's should remember indefinitely. Hopefully this will help inspire some young'uns.
Sorry for any kind of inaccuracies, which I know are terrible in these kinds of fics, but I have to rely on news footage from the internet. I don't remember anything about 9/11/01 except for that I was in Kindergarten. Correct me if you see anything.
Critique is appreciated, flaming is not. Please R&R and always remember.