Breaking Liberty
He rouses her as always, nuzzling fondly in a manner somewhere between intimate and fatherly but the action somehow resonates more with the turning of a key in the ignition of his favorite toy.
Her green eyes stare in response, while her golden hair is tangled and unruly from another ungraceful night of tossing and turning in her sleep, if she could call it that. He didn't worry, as usual, the makeup would cover the bags under her eyes and the hollow of her cheeks.
The sandy-haired nation would kiss the top of her head as always, before lifting her from her resting place to carry her skinny, limp frame towards the shower. He would be especially careful with her, she was girl.
She scarcely looked up, merely gazing at the tile as they went through the usual routine, as she found little comfort in those blue eyes or in the mirrored spectacles that shielded them.
He bathes the fragile thing carefully, in a manner almost genuine, drying her off gently and brushing the knots from her dazzling hair. A beautiful piece of work he would comment, there was a day when she would beam with pride, but he made her shine nonetheless.
He will dress her richly, in elegance and taste, perfecting her makeup before placing the spiky, thorny crown upon her head that weighed so heavily upon her.
Lastly, he will kiss her goodbye as he always does, before leaving to jet set the world with some new weapon, prize innovation, or scientific breakthrough.
He leaves her, his precious one, to hold the torch for his nation, while he himself is largely absent.
And so she waits, with a nation expectant upon her, the ultimate ideal, but she is still, a statue, silent, bound.
She had passed through many hands, been possessed by so many nations. She was desperately strived for, but once gained, she had fallen from them all after due time.
Liberty was somehow less a being of solid matter than of a liquid; they would cup her with open hands, but ultimately she would begin to slip through their fingers. She nourished them as best she could, but it was never enough.
At times she was simply abandoned for a new way of life, other times driven forcefully from the arms that held her, and rarely she fled of her own will, when times had fallen to complete chaos.
But, history was not always unkind…
France had been generous to her under Napoleon, After all, Liberty had come to philosophical fruition under the nation's guidance, at least before the leader's madness tore them apart.
Regrettably, the story repeated itself time and time again.
She stood battered but resilient through each revolution, hopeful to be more than just a passing fancy.
Well, she used to think that way.
When America found her, he was different. The bright-eyed youth had come to her with dignity and perseverance in his heart, a desire to free himself permanently from his oppressor, his father, his creator.
Usually, there was revolution, she would serve her purpose and move on, as always.
But America, he did not,
He would not, let her go.
In a lengthy contract, signed by many proud, driven men, America bound himself to her, and her alone.
In articles, in blood, in a constitution.
In those vital days, where committee after committee bickered about the terms of their contract, he promised that he would never leave her.
It was in earnest, he was young.
But it was true.
He wouldn't.
Not ever.
The hero never abandoned his maiden, his lady.
No matter how much she began to wish he would.
She watched as the nation split itself in two, battling fiercely on their own land, over ideas muddied and hidden under the veil of ethics.
Her fearless upstart was battered terribly, but somehow managed to pull himself together, united once again, under stronger, central control. The idea felt frightening at first, she had known the result of power from Europe. but her caution seemed without cause.
For awhile, life was joyous, as her partner flourished and developed at an unheard of pace. At his side, she supported him fully, her love and her partner.
Things had begun so well, she reminisced, remembered herself she grew fat on the American dream, plump and rosy. She had appeared then, palatable and so desirous, drawing envy from those who left her behind in Europe.
But somehow, as the modern age began to take hold of her beloved nation, things began to change.
The days sped faster and faster, and the world became embroiled in war as never before.
They manufactured, in leaps and bounds, more and more effective ways of destroying one another.
It began to destroy him, filling him with a familiar but mad lust, and before she knew it, it had already begun to infect her.
After prolonged silence, her lack of protest at the atrocities he had authorized his people to commit under the guise of morality, America began to notice her sickness.
Despite her size, her influence, she had fallen to malnutrition, no longer nourished by the once dashing youth who had swept her away.
He was becoming critical, cruel, though he scarcely noticed. Denying himself at fault, the fallacy was not in his nation's diet, their veracity, no, it was in her. Her image.
Suddenly her figure was not enough, it was not cutting edge, it was not imposing or striking enough. It wasn't perfect.
It had to be better.
He assisted her as was his duty, though it doesn't make sense to put it that way. His blue eyes regarded her without the tenderness that was once present as he sternly guided her fingers down her own throat.
He continued to help induce the vomit until she had grown accustomed enough to the sensation to do it herself. It made her weak, tired.
But she did it still.
She was bound.
The years had brought her here, a frail, timid girl, carried about by America and set on display wherever he did so need her.
On her pedestal, she was still, her expression unwavering as he desired it.
Not unlike a stalled machine, she lacked the ability to come to back to life, to move, to leave.
Instead, she waits, obedient. Broken.
Every night, he lifts her back down, and brings his treasure home.
He removes the crown from her bruised scalp, he washes off her makeup and rids her of her rich garments.
He carefully brushes her golden locks, before carrying her delicately back to his bed.
The sandy haired man lays the girl down and pulls the sheet gingerly up to her shoulders.
He kisses her goodnight on the forehead with a cracked smile that only looks real.
In moments she feels his weight settle beside her on the bed as the lights go out.
If she were to glance behind, which she wouldn't dare, his back would be turned to her as those faded blue eyes shut with resolve.
Green eyes stare nervously into the dark.