After the partying, pass the time of singing in celebration; after all, he stood alone. Dressed in a black suit and a spotless white shirt, the top two buttons open. His heart felt heavy, his body like lead. White roses held in his hands, before his chest, left and cradling the flower heads. It was empty and this place, though the city continued on just down the street. Nothing touched this mass graves, the memories so strong it defied time. Ten years later. Ten years of war and hate, ten years of anger and death. By no means was this over. The massacre of thousands was the spark, and he didn't deny his thirst for a vengeance was not quenched, but something in his chest felt that this ended something. He had been here once before, standing by helplessly as he watched the greatest horror of his recent memory unfold.
His body felt cold, though the air around him was electrified. It was March, the sun had set and chills crept under his clothing, but that didn't matter much to him. The shivers he felt was the kind one got from standing in a grave yard, looking over the tombstones in the silence. When even nature gives her silence to those she carries asleep in her bosom. If he closed his eyes, he could see it all again, watching everything play out, slowed down, sped up, forward, backwards. He knew that day by heart, just as he knew the Civil War, or his Revolution. He knew them all, each a grueling scar across his body, mind, and heart.
"I thought I was above this all," he murmured softly, kneeling to the ground, he placed down the flowers. With the announcement, there was a little bit of a healing, the wound closing a little bit tighter, but it was still there. He would never forgive them. And in the end, he couldn't forgive himself. He had trained his enemies, his children had to pay the price. If he closed his eyes, he could see the planes veer in, feel the explosion rock through his feet and the air. See the fire and hear the people screaming for help. Watch them hurl themselves over the edge, down to certain death.
At first he tried to fight the images, then the guilt of his actions, and the fact he could do nothing. Absolutely nothing . . . The greatest country, the sole super power, helpless. The memories were like an snake bite, seeping in its poison. The death of the scrawny rat who had done this to him was a bitter anti-venom. The war his life support. He had given up hope, after all these years of fighting and hatred, he had believed it would go on forever, this game of Cat-and-Mouse.
"This isn't over," was all Afghanistan had said. All this, over something that was so long ago.
"You brought this upon yourself Amerika," Russia, then the Soviet Union had said, "You beat back the serpent from the dragon. You will come to regret this, and it will not be from my hand."
He sighed, letting the memories fade out, looking around him in this gaping wound. The people who died here, despite what they all said, they died as Americans, but in the name of nothing. The guilt gnawed at him, it all fell back on him. What if he hadn't helped them against Communism, or what if he had conveniently glossed over civil rights violations as he did with China? The answer was glaringly obvious to him, and standing upon the graves of thousands, he felt a weight, heavier than time itself, press upon him.
"I'm Sorry."
A/N: This was supposed to be longer, it was supposed to be traumatic and heart aching, but this is enough. Even I can't go on. And this may offend people, I know. But what doesn't anymore. But 9/11 awoke America, not like Pearl Harbor. In 1941, America was in its lowest low, but in 2001, it was in an all time high. And 10 years later, with the death of Osama Bin Laden, it is nowhere near the end. All that lays ahead for us is more death and hate. But those who died in 9/11, sleep well, you rest in God's memory.