Disclaimer: This short is dark and not for the faint of heart. If you don't like creepy things, wait another week and I'll have part 2 of "From the Vaults" up, till then, hang in there. If you do like creepy things, I suggest pairing this fic with a nice, 2001, "Mad World" by Gary Jules.

Also, I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers

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Arthur?

England?

Arthur.

Turn off the light, please.

I don't like the light.

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It's the new scars from the War. They make my face look frightful. I suppose I shouldn't have stepped in front of that mortar, but if I hadn't, then I would have lost three hundred or so…I suppose. I didn't used to have these scars. My face used to be soft and smooth like China's silk or India's cotton—a child's face. I had a child's face.

I was young, once.

Why are you only standing at the door? Shouldn't you come in? I've fried chicken on the stove. Do you want some, England? I knew you'd be coming. You always come when things go bad back home, for you, not for me. Chicken and lemonade? Won't you come inside? Arthur? England?

Arthur, the wind is loud and the light from the street is coming in. Please. I like the dark. The dark is my…my joy. My sleep. I must have slept once or twice a couple-a weeks ago. I can't really remember.

Don't stumble in here with your shoes on, England.

Arthur.

England.

Arthur, you'll get dirt on the carpet. Silly, don't you remember? You're the one who taught me that. Or was it Japan? It might have been Japan. In any case, you are forgiven if in fact Japan taught me to take my shoes off when I enter a building. I believe you are forgiven.

My, my, my, Arthur.

Father when did you last eat? Why, your cheeks have sunken further than my bottom line, but of course, I mean that in the nicest way. And you've stopped shaving. Why? You look awful with a beard—your ripened-peach flesh with ale-froth whiskers; your beard is the same color as your face. Why have you done that? You've never been one for facial hair.

Have you seen Matthew?

Father, you may sit anywhere in the parlor. I shall fetch your chicken and your lemonade. Or would you prefer tea? Keep talking please—I'll only be in the kitchen; I can still hear you.

There we are. Fried chicken. Yes, fried chicken for the fried soul of Europe. How are you doing, by the way, Arthur? England—how are you doing?

Of course I'm doing fine. I'm America. I-I-I'm Alfred Jones. I'm your son. I'm doing fine. Wonderfully.

I can't begin to tell you how much money I found. I'm still in debt up to my eyeballs, of course, who isn't these days—but I couldn't believe I hadn't found thatcoffer before! It was tucked away, far, far away, like it was playing a long game of hide-and-seek. But I won. I always do. Do you know who had it this whole time? My Jewish friend! Yes, Esther had it. (She's been living with me again since her home was swallowed by a Leviathan.) What a wonderful and nice friend she is, don't you agree? My Jewish friend. My funny Jewish friend.

I also have rich friends.

And poor ones, too, of course. They say they don't have any money, the poor ones, but if you just keep asking, just ask them one more time—they'll eventually come through. Because they love me. They know who I am, what I am, what I stand for, and they love me. They love me so much that they would forfeit their children and their homes in my name. Their very children, England. Lovely, lovely children. But so many mouths to feed. Do you know how much money it takes to feed a child from cradle to grave? Billions, England. Billions, Arthur.

Arthur— do you know what fire smells like? Like leather and like hickory. Like a million Oklahoma wildflowers lifting off from this great, great, plentiful world and leaping into the fields of heavens. You still believe in heaven, don't you, England? Or did you abolish your belief in an Eden when you turned your back on God and everything that was faithful and good in this world?

The ones who really believe…my Protestants and my Catholics, but the Catholics are, of course, the oddest of them all, and that is the way it's always been I believe. They once burned those who didn't believe in their ways. (Their wrong ways. Their cannibal ways. Their devious ways.) I have their money now. Money they would have given to the Pope and their family members in—

—Mexico. I have a wall up now, England. Like the one that separates you and Scotland. But mine isn't made of stone. It's got infrared cameras and microwave sensors in the ground that sense when people walk over the spot. And it heats up and it heats up and it heats up and if you've made it to the center of the wave, you won't cross it because your brain will melt like a crayon on a Texas sidewalk in the middle of August. They're like the sensors at drive-thrus, England.

Father, let's go to McDonald's. You used to love that place, even though you said you hated it.

Do you know what I hate, England, sweet Father who raised me in my youth? Do you know what I hate? I hate unclean things. Look around. It's dark, but I'll never stumble through here because it is clean. Everything is in its place. Organized. Beautiful in its simplicity.

Where is Detroit? Why do you ask? It's right where it should be. In its place. All together. I put the pieces back myself. Every single one of them. I put the arm of a child back in its socket. She was dead already though. Dead like the ash which she breathed in with her last breath. Choked on smoke. Not nuclear fumes. Smoke. Just smoke. Just ash.

Where are my subways? Away.

No one travels anymore, England. No one. They're all asleep, the ones in New York. The ones in Detroit. In Houston. They're asleep. Asleep perchance to dream. To sleep, perchance to dream. That was one of yours, wasn't it, England?

My father. My caretaker. Why do you shy from me? You can't see my face can you? The scars, I know the scars are revolting. They disgust me too sometimes.

England?

Arthur?

England, where have you gone? Why do you stumble through the house? Everything is where it should be. It's in order. You should never trip. I never trip. Can you see me limp? Can you see my limp? No, no you can't because I never hit anything when I walk down here. I am clean and coordinated and cool and collected and nothing is impossible for me because I am America and I will prevail.

I am America and I will prevail.

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There you are, silly England.

Do you know what fire smells like? I've already asked, haven't I? I think Germany knows what it smells like. I think Russia and Ukraine and Belarus know too. Prussia might. Prussia would know, but he was a dirty half-breed and he finally buckled under the pressure of the ash and the dust and all the filthy, filthy dirt.

I have a paper lantern here in this room, so you can turn the light on. Look at the wall, what a lovely color I've painted it, yes England? Yes, I have painted it a lovely nice color. A shade of red. The color of sunsets. I like sunsets. I like endings. Don't you England? Dear, sweet England, don't you?

And this wall? It's covered with the faces of my presidents—Washington and Franklin. Lots of Franklins. He wasn't a president though, but don't you enjoy this color? I love it so. I couldn't get it just right so I had to put four layers down. Four layers of Franklin and Hamilton and Jefferson and Washington. And Grant. A few Grants. It's hard to find those nowadays, the Grants. Treasures. You should hold onto them if you find one. And what do I have here? An American mark. A mark that guarantees water when the well fills up again.

Have you ever seen someone, England, without water for days? They wrinkle up like a tomato. I'm sorry—tomato—in the sun. They just shrink and wither up like a Shrinky-Dink, but they're not nearly as fun to play with or as fun to watch. I haven't had anything to drink in a few days. Not new water, anyway. I'm pretty sure I've completely forgotten what fresh water tastes like, but we've plenty reusable water. See, you put a packet in and swirl it up and swirl it up and swirl it up until the dirt goes away and it's clean. So clean and see through and no one gets sick from this. No one ever gets sick from this. Not a single person. If you hear anything else, it's a goddamn dirty lie, probably set up by Russia because he wants to win this round. Well, he can't, England. Ivan can't, Arthur because everyone is happy. I'm happy. I'm fine. I'm fine, England. Arthur, aren't you fine too?

No one ever gets sick from the water.

Where is Matthew?

It must have only been three weeks ago that I last saw him. We were in Maine. Looking for Christmas trees. I wanted a Christmas tree…was certain that I'd find one and I'd find one with him because Christmas trees need to be found with family members. There is no exception to that rule. Have you seen my Canada?

We put a wall up there too. The one with microwaves. You could roast a steak with those microwaves from about three miles away, but then you might lose your arm reaching for it. My arm? No. My arm isn't broken, England. Arthur, why would my arm be broken?

I shan't eat. I won't eat until I see that you've eaten everything on your plate, Arthur. Don't you see how much bigger your piece is than mine? Don't you see how much of a generous host I'm being by giving you this piece? I won't eat until you eat do you want me to starve? Eat for the love of all things good which you stopped believing in and punished those who did believe.

An edict from the Prime Minister, the man who had dethroned the Throned, a man—just a man—who promised food and security, for man will listen to anyone when he is hungry and when he is afraid. My God did not take away my God. My God came from on high, my beloved Jesus Christ has returned and there he sits in those hallowed, virgin halls, and from his gavel do words from the most holy of holies fly. He speaks daily to us, and we are so lucky to have him and lead us through these too-bright days. He guides me, England. Father. Arthur. England, he guides me. He holds my hand and walks me through the fire, like you used to. Come home, you used to say. Come home and I'll make you a spot of tea and we'll drink to the health of the King and you'll tell me stories about the Knights until I fall asleep, so sound, so young, so clean on your shoulders.

Where is Matthew? Where is my cousin? Where is my beloved cousin with whom I once shared a border? Where is my cousin? Do you know where he is, England? Father. You wouldn't keep something like this from me, yes? You would tell me if you knew where Matthew was. You'd tell me. You'd tell me.

Do you hear that? That sound? It sounds like a whistle. It shrieks. It shreds through the air, through my dark and pristine night. What is that sound, Arthur? England, what is that sound? Where do these sounds come from? I hear them all the time. All through the brave night and through the day, I hear these noises. I hear the sounds. My God cannot take them away.

(He plagues me with these sounds so I may repent and learn and return to my God, but I have England, I have. I have repented and my bones ache and my soul cries out for rest. Can you give me what He cannot?)

Do you know what fire smells like?

It smells like a house of roaches being cleared.

It smells like money.

Money and passion and sex and filth and everything that is bad and awful in this world because if they're bad, then it's ok if the fire smells funny, if the smoke has a strange hickory and leather scent and there is a sound to it and I swear it's not the hissing of damp wood, but sometimes I can't be certain. It is fine. I am fine.

I am fine.

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Musubi's Rice Corner

Well, hello fanfiction and hello Hetalia fandom! It's been about two years since I've done any kind of Hetalia related activity (you can read all about my happenings in my profile), and I decided to come back to the fandom with a bang. What I'm doing in my series of "From the Vaults" is looking back at my old fics from livejournal, editing and reuploading them. This is to get me back in the swing of things, and to familiarize myself with my interpretations of the character, and to bring back my style a bit.

Of the entries I have for "From the Vaults," this is by far the darkest and heaviest to get through, so fret not. And hopefully there will be at least five more entries. Maybe I can find some really early fics to edit and upload and squeeze this series out to ten.

Some story notes in case you're at all curious~

I originally wrote "Ash" in 2010 after my English class had read and watched "A Streetcar Named Desire." I was inspired by the character Blanche DuBois and her psychosis and (without spoiling too much of a forty-year-old film), her descent into utter madness. I adored Vivvien Leigh as Blanche (and Marlon Brando's "Stelllllllllllla" scene is so...unintentionally funny due to all of the parodies surrounding it) and wanted to write a soliloquy of someone slipping further into madness. I changed the pace of the original and slowed it way down, which helps with the tone of the story, I think.

My headcanon is that Nations are born, not made. And due to this (really long and sort of convoluted family tree I had), Matthew is Alfred's cousin. They still look almost identical, but they are cousins. And yay, paternal!England, son!America.

What happens in the world that drives Alfred/America to such a state of hysterics? I'm going to throw out some key terms and you all can come up with your own conclusions: world wide depression, attacks on Detroit, Huston, New York, wide spread water contamination, disease, international conflict, Jews, desperate for a savior in the worst of times, misplaced faith, eugenics.