Alfred put the ringing phone to his ear and waited for England to pick up. He meandered through the streets of Manhattan, a cool September breeze ruffling his dirty blond hair.

The other line stopped ringing. "America! What brings you to call me?" Arthur sounded more chipper than typical. America didn't give it much thought.

"Something awesome! Guess where I am!" Alfred said, bouncing down the busy street.

"Uhh… America?"

"Well duh. I'm in Manhattan! I haven't been here in like, twenty years!"

England groaned. "Does it look like I give a crap?" he muttered. "That's great… you have fun with that."

"I am! It's a lovely day today, you would enjoy it."

"Would I, now? And you know this how?"

"'Cause you're always having rainy weather up there on your silly little island and I thought you would like how nice and sunny it is." America's voice sounded genuine, but England had known him long enough to hear the smirk behind the smile.

"You're an idiot. A sweet idiot, but an idiot."

"Hmm," Alfred mused, looking up at the vast, blue sky.

"What is it?"

"That plane is flying awfully low."

"Maybe it's coming in for a landing?"

"No, I didn't think the airport was in this area… but who knows. It could be. I haven't been here in a while." Alfred watched the plane as he soaked in the last rays of the summer sun. The line was quiet on both sides.

"So, how's it going?" Arthur asked, breaking the pleasant silence.

"Just great. My people are happy, I'm happy, it's been a good deca- OH NO." America dropped the phone as an ear shattering crashing sound filled the air. People all around him were either frozen from shock or screaming and running away. The North World Trade Center had been hit by the plane. Alfred blinked in surprise. This couldn't be happening. From his discarded cell phone, England yelled his name, cursing him and begging him to answer.

He couldn't.

People were running in all directions. Most ran away from the tower. It was going to collapse soon. Some ran toward it, sirens filled the air. America stood, frozen, watching his people burn. Watching the building burn, ending far too many lives. He could feel them dying. He could feel the fear, shock, and dread of his people as the entire nation watched. It still felt so surreal.

"no…" he breathed.

It wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

He could feel the heat of the fire on his face. Everyone around him was shouting, but he couldn't hear any of it. The world had slowed down, all except him. His mind raced at a million miles an hour, trying to figure out how any of this could be a reality. England was still screaming his name, but he couldn't hear him.

Was this an accident? It had to be.

Suddenly coming to, America picked up the phone and tried to console his friend. "England, for Pete's sake, stop screaming," he stuttered. Try as he might, he couldn't take his eyes off the scene at hand. The tower was burning. One of his most prized landmarks was being destroyed before his eyes.

"What the heck happened? I DEMAND AN ANSWER."

"That plane hit the North Tower. It's burning. I think they're evacuating, but …" America choked on the words.

Arthur was quiet. "I'm so sorry… it was an accident, wasn't it?"

"I think so, I mean it had to be, right?"

"Yeah, definitely."

"Oh gosh, England. Some of them are trapped, they're not going to get down. The ones on top aren't going to make it, the tower's going to collapse before they can get that fire out and what do I do? I can't do anything because I look like I'm nineteen." America's voice cracked.

"I don't know what to tell you," England admitted.

"There's another one. No no no no no" Another low-flying plane was closing in at a rapid speed. It sliced into the second tower and exploded. Alfred covered his ears against the noise as this new reality sunk in.

Terrorism.

That was the only thing it could have been. He fell to his knees and screamed as tears poured from his eyes. He didn't cry. He never cried. But here he was, kneeling on the side of the road, hands in his lap, sobbing. He couldn't stop.

"America? America! America, talk to me! Alfred, please!" England pleaded.

Anger replaced shock, and still shaking with tears, America stood up to face the two burning buildings and the hundreds of his dead people. His phone once again slid from his hand and he began running for the buildings. He pushed through hundreds of people running in the opposite direction, trying to get away from the heat and dust. He needed to save them. He needed to save as many of his people as he could. He was several blocks away from the World Trade Centers, but as he neared he could hear the metal creaking. They weren't going to last forever. People were going to die. He couldn't let that happen. Heat from the massive fired scorched his skin as he pushed his way closer. Finally, only a block from ground zero, he was stopped.

A firefighter grabbed his arm. Alfred tried to shake him off, but the officer held firm. "Sir, you need to get out of here."

"But I can't! I need to save them! They're my people!"

"They're all of our people, sir, but you can't be here."

"But, but…" America looked at the two skyscrapers. How many people were dead already? How many more would die? As he stared at the buildings he loved, he noticed people jumping. People were jumping out of the top floors as well as spilling out every exit on the ground. Was it really so hopeless that they felt they had more of a chance of survival if they jumped?

The firefighter nudged him backwards. "Sir, you need to get out of here. This building will come down any minute now."

"No. It can't. It can't, I won't accept that!" he was crying again. America yanked his arm away from the firefighter and stepped backwards. Why? Why would anyone do this? It couldn't be real. It wasn't right. This was his home. Whoever did this, they would pay.

The metal was cracking. He could hear it shattering. The structure couldn't take it. The firefighter looked at him in alarm. "Sir! You need to leave now!" He yelled as the top of the building folded in on itself. It was coming down. The whole tower was collapsing. Shards of glass rained down on the street. The firefighter turned and began to run away, but he was too close to the destruction. America closed his eyes as the cloud of debris enveloped him.

…

He was lying flat on his back when he woke up. The dust had settled, and people were swarming him. A chorus of "you're alive!" and "Are you okay?" echoed in his ears. He tried to sit up. Everything hurt. To his left, a blanket covered a body. It had to be that firefighter. He was dead. Most of the people had still been trapped inside that building when it collapsed. How many people had died? Ambulances were everywhere, treating people, rushing them to hospitals.

A few medical people aided him to his feet and examined his wounds. Thankfully he hadn't been hurt terribly. Nothing that would leave a scar. At least, not a physical scar. America as a whole was scarred. The country would never be the same, and Alfred knew that.

Thirteen years later he still knew it. He sat alone in his home thirteen years later staring at the wall trying to forget. He wanted to forget, yet he knew that it was best to remember. Some said he was stronger for it. But if he was really stronger, why did he feel so weak? Why did he feel that there was a gaping hole in his heart that could never be healed? Thirteen years later he buried his face in his hands and wept silently. Thirteen years later he could still remember every detail of that horrid day. Thirteen years later, and for the rest of his life.