"Hatred is gained as much by good works as by evil."
It might hurt; he's not sure. Somewhere, it does hurt. There's an animal slowly clawing at his mind, ripping away consciousness and tearing away at feasible thought. Somewhere, the pain writhes and makes him curl in on himself. He must hide from it, attempt to escape, because this is not an agony he can fight. Submit or run. He'd rather die than forfeit.
So, he runs. Attempts. Succeeds.
He smiles and it hurts but he can feign normality. They're looking at him, wishing him to somehow dissolve. He thinks he is not Canada and takes comfort knowing that none of them will receive what they wish. Though they hate, though they despise, America knows they're all just fools so he'll smile and laugh and dismiss their remarks as nothing but hollow threats. It hurts, hurts, hurts.
Don't hate me; love me, love me, stop, stop.
They're words he wants to say, wants to scream. He cannot beg. America would never beg, but inwardly he's crumbling. The contempt is palpable. Why though? America cannot fathom the reasoning behind the scorn. He's doing them a favor, saving their asses, because he knows they won't save themselves. Love me, love me, I'm helping you.
His smile gets wider. Farther, farther, away from the pain and removing himself from it all. Disconnect. Disengage; America is gone.
"I had to act. I don't care if it created more enemies. I had to act," he informs them smoothly, one hip pressed painfully hard against the solidity of the table. His arms are folded across his chest, forming a smooth arch as his head tilts to the left. Warmth spreads throughout the room and those closest are sated. "This is the great war of our times."
Murmurs, always a low rumble. They don't want to speak aloud, challenge him. They're content to whisper behind his back and allow their voices to carry. He hears them; they know he does. That's the point.
He wants to say, "I'm doing this for your own good! They'd kill us all if they could! The problem needs to be stopped here and I'm just protecting you."
The words catch and fold in on themselves. There's a lump in his throat that he can't swallow past. They stare and talk and he pretends not to listen. Ignorance, he tells himself, is truly bliss. Take one's mind and drag it from reality so that it may be preserved when the times press down and freedom seems like a dim memory because surely that would be too painful for America. He is freedom and that is now gone. There's a visage of what it once was but that is not him and he can still taste the bittersweet resonance of it all.
To recognize it's sudden departure would shatter the shards of sanity he has been able to cling to. So, America takes his mind and leads it to somewhere not here. He is not in this meeting, trying to justify his reasoning. They shouldn't question why, only praise. In the world he finds himself in, they are praising him. They kneel down and kiss his fucking boots because he is America and he is saving them.
Somewhere it hurts and he guesses it's where he should be. Where the others cast poorly concealed looks of disapproval and barely restrained rage. Where he knows the world is slowly coming undone and all fingers point his way. He's their scapegoat, the one to blame so they can lift the burden from their shoulders and claim no responsibility for the things they should have done but were too selfish not to. It must hurt there because, where America is, there is no pain or hate.
There's only him and the world and they're graciously thanking him for his help and he's telling them, "Yes, I did it for you, you sacks of shit." Here, he does not have to be kind but there, where he should be, America smiles.
A Few Notes: Quotations are from Engel's War Journal: My Five Years In Iraq during an interview with President Bush Jr. First quote is from Niccolo Machiavelli, writer of The Prince. This piece references the Iraq War, which the U.S. reasoned that Iraq was a growing threat to the U.S. and world community's safety because of a whole slew of BS I don't particularly buy into.
A/N: I am so lazy with research and adore The Prince. This one-shot may evolve into a series of one-shots based on quotes from Machiavelli and his novel. I was just sorta bored, so, yea. Beta'd by a friend who was kind enough to do so. Sorry if there are mistakes, he isn't a native English speaker either. Read, review.