America stomped down the street, muttering angrily to himself. Why did England have to be so damn strict all the time? It just wasn't fair. Tugging on his backpack straps, the sullen looking preteen continued to reflect on England's parenting skills. Which, as far as he was concerned, were close to zero.
He kicked the pebbles on the road angrily watching them go flying with some small measure of… hm, he couldn't quite put a word to the feeling. America knew he knew a word that fit, but it just wasn't coming to him. Ah, whatever. It wasn't like it really mattered to him anyways.
And he was still mad at England.
In fact, he could probably recite every line from their argument perfectly—not that he was ever going to do that.
It had all started with a fairly simple, average comment. America and England had been getting ready for their day when England had casually mentioned that America needed to clean his room out as soon as he got home from school. America—who would have normally taken that sort of thing pretty well—instead got super pissed off. Maybe he had woken up on the wrong side of the bed, or perhaps he was just having one of those days. It didn't really make a difference either way. The main issue was his reaction to such a simple, innocent comment.
"I won't," he'd snapped back at his guardian. "Besides, I'll be too busy anyways. I'm not gonna have time for something stupid like cleaning my room."
And England, of course, had let this rub him the wrong way. He started to become somewhat agitated as well.
"Now you listen here, America," he'd shot back in an equally harsh tone. "I'm the adult, and you're the child That is no way for you to treat your elders—you need to show some respect. And you will be cleaning out your room when you get home. No negotiations."
"But—"
"No, I don't want to hear it, America. We all have excuses for getting out of things we don't like. However, that does not mean—"
"And I don't want to listen to you, England It's not fair! Why do I have to listen to you all the damn time?! It's not like you're my actual parent or anything! You and France are just guardians, stand-ins for the real thing!"
This had clearly done something to deeply hurt England, though at the time, America hadn't really cared. Now, he wondered if maybe he had gone a little too far with that comment.
"A-america! Don't say such things!" England had grabbed both of America's shoulders and shook the boy slightly, a wounded look in his eyes.
America had shoved England's hands away. He hadn't wanted England to be anywhere near him. Soon, their little disagreement turned into a real loud fight and suddenly, it had stopped being about the original thing that had caused the argument in the first place.
And that was when America had said it. The thing he now wished he hadn't. That thing that he wasn't very proud of having said.
"Yeah, well I can take care of myself—I don't need you to tell me what's good for me! Even if you disappeared, I'd still be able to get along just fine—without you! Jesus, why do I even need adults, anyways?! I wish… I wish you'd just leave me alone so I could just do my own thing! Stop telling me what to do all the fucking time!" And on that happy note, a quite furious America had fled the house, slamming the door behind him. Hopefully, school would help calm him down. He could hang with his friends have some time away from England, and he could stop thinking about how incredibly angry he was at said person. At least, that's what America hoped.
That is, if he made it to the bus in time. For there it was, stalling at the end of his street, honking its obnoxiously loud horn and waiting for him to reach it.
"Dammit!" he hissed under his breath as he began sprinting towards the bus. This day certainly hadn't started well, and would probably only get worse. America didn't stop to admire the red and gold leaves as he usually did, though he did consider it, if only to troll the bus driver.
Leaping up the bus steps, America quickly strode to the far back of the bus, plopping himself down in the left seat. Suddenly realizing that he'd somehow lost the rest of the candy bar, he sighed and reached into his bag for a new one. His fist met empty air as he closed his fist in the apparently empty pocket of his bag where he kept everything he needed for his daily sugar fix.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed loudly. Several pairs of eyes turned to see why he'd just sworn—and on the bus, no less! The stupid bus cameras were watching. Of course. They were always watching.
America stepped off the school bus in a much better mood than when he'd stepped onto it in the morning. Humming happily to himself, America began walking home. He truly wasn't all that worried about England still being mad at him for what had happened in the morning. Okay, maybe a little, but he certainly wasn't going to admit that to himself.
As soon as he stepped onto the end of the driveway, however the mood seemed to shift—almost imperceptibly—though America decided it was nothing.
Maybe I'm more worried about England still being mad than I originally thought, America supposed.
He tried to open the door. It was locked.
What the heck?! England's car is in the driveway, so why…?
Shrugging off the lingering feeling of uneasiness, he simply retrieved the spare key from the flowerpot next to the door and let himself in. Maybe England was taking a nap or something, and that was why the door had bend locked.
But America wasn't fully convinced of it himself.
"England? I'm home!" he called. Hm, that was strange. Why were the lights off? Again, America ignored the nervous feeling sliding around the edges of his mind—that tiny little alarm going off in the back of his conscious thoughts, quietly shutting the door behind himself. America tried again.
"Yo, England! I'm home!"
What, nothing? I would have thought he'd yell at me… or at least tell me not to be so loud as soon as I got home.
Something was definitely wrong here—or just… off. Maybe that was a better word to describe it. Yes, there was definitely something slightly off about everything. Suddenly, America felt as though he were a trespasser, like this was not his home.
But it was his home, right?
Wandering further into this unknown territory, America felt the deep silence pressing down on him, crushing him… pulling him in deeper. But deeper into what? America could not say.
For some reason, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room sounded too loud, though America couldn't quite put his finger on why. Nervously, he slid his pack off of his shoulders and crept over the the living room door. Ever so carefully, he pushed the door inward. It creaked, causing America to flinch ever so slightly, wary of making a move. He slowly positioned himself at the perfect angle to look through the crack between the door and its frame. Peering into the room, he found…
Nothing. Everything was as it should be. For some reason, this deeply unsettled America. He had been sure something was lurking in there, just beyond the threshold. The absence of a clear threat was… somewhat disturbing, to say the least. But why? Shouldn't he have been relieved?
That was just it, though, wasn't it? How was he supposed to face a threat he couldn't see? Besides which, America could feel some sort of malevolent presence, lurking just beyond his field of vision, within the peripheral view of reality. Something so unnatural… but that was impossible.
Wasn't it? God, America wasn't so sure anymore. And that might have been what bothered him the most of all. The mere fact that his resolve could be so easily undermined… unthinkable. And yet, here he was.
America suddenly realized that goosebumps had begun forming all up and down his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck had begun to stand up. Shoving down the ridiculous urge to bolt out of the house at top speed, America shut the living room door with a tiny snick.
He began to walk up the stairs. Surely England would be in this bedroom. But the tension would not leave America's shoulders as he climbed upwards. That alone should have been indication enough. And the thought of what else could be lurking upstairs set his nerves on edge.
Running his hand along the smooth white walls, America shuffled down the hall, making straight for England's room. He hoped upon hope that he'd find his guardian there.
Upon opening the door, America found the room to be the same as always. Truthfully, he didn't know what exactly he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't… this. It was too normal. Out of place.
And somewhat alarming.
There was the bed, same as always, the perfectly white comforter draped over it. And the dark green curtains, too, hung in their normal places. The wooden nightstand with the miniature table lamp stood silently, while the elaborately designed clock on the far wall slowly ticked by the seconds.
But there was no England here.
Unnerving. Yes, that's what it was for him. It was unnerving.
Once again, the complete lack of an obvious threat frightened America more than any monster would have. It was just a feeling. An unsettling, unnerving feeling.
Presently, America began to drift around the house, searching in vain for England. His car had been in the drive. So where was he? That was the million-dollar question.
With mounting trepidation and a sense of great insecurity, America returned to the kitchen. What he needed right then was a good snack, something to do other than just worry himself silly.
As soon as he opened the fridge, however, all thoughts of eating vanished as though chased off by some unknown force.
There were severed hands in the refrigerator.
And not just hands, oh no. Of course not. Of course there also had to be eyes floating in glass jars. When America opened the refrigerator's door, they all spun to cast their morbid, unblinking stares upon him. America wouldn't have been surprised if he'd died of fright right where he stood.
He slammed the door shut.
"Okay, snacking is totally out," he muttered to himself. "So now what?" Well, he supposed he could try calling a friend or something. Because he was seriously getting freaked out.
Quickly whipping his cell phone out of his pocket (and internally face palming at himself for not thinking to call a friend sooner), he scrolled though his contact list to his best buddy and pressed the call button.
"The number you have dialed is invalid. Please check the area code or the number, then try again. To contact the operator, press 0. For more options, press 1."
Irked, America tried again. It didn't work. Then he tried with a different contact. Again, the call would not go through. Sighing, he tried using the home phone, hoping for better results.
Turns out, the home phone was busted too, so either it was the phones being weird, or all of America's friends had suddenly decided to change their numbers. Neither had a high probability for being the real deal.
After one last failed attempt, America slowly let the arm with the phone fall to his side.
He still felt uneasy,
The sudden sound of creaking floorboards caused America to jump, dropping the phone in the process. A piece of the phone went flying, and he uttered a choice word at it.
"England! Is this a joke, because it's not a particularly funny one! England? Hey, England! Look, I'm sorry for this morning, okay? There, I said it. I'm sorry! Are you happy now? Come on, answer me, goddammit!" America felt somewhat silly, talking to no one. But he was still clinging to the tiny shred of hope that this was all some kind of practical joke by England meant to teach him a lesson. What other choice did he have besides starting to totally lose it?
In the end, America chose to go on the Internet to talk with his friends. Moving through the house, the complete hush sent shivers up and down his spine. It was quiet. Too quiet. Almost like a graveyard.
This blanket of silence was really starting to get to America. Every time he made a sound, no matter how small, he would freeze up and glance around. Why, he didn't know. All he knew was that it was imperative for him to maintain that silence—no matter what.
So, by the time he finally reached the room with the computer, he was really on edge, almost to the point where the sudden appearance of a small mouse would have caused him to scream. That was the state he found himself in when he sat down at the computer.
Starting up the machine, America winced at the seemingly loud sound it made when booting up. Why hadn't he ever noticed the volume before? When the computer turned on, the first thing America did was choke back a cry of absolute terror. A frightening, twisted image smiled at America when, by machine default, the Internet browser opened. Its strange form was disproportionate, with all sorts of small things somewhat… off about it. America quickly got rid of the browser window.
Just as he began navigating onto Facebook, his Internet connection crashed, leaving America even more shaken up and anxious. Hopefully, England would cut it out soon.
Unless it's not his doing, a traitorous part of his mind suggested. Maybe this is real trouble. What if… he is no longer here?
America pushed the thought away, not willing to entertain it a second longer. No, what he needed to do was try to figure out what was going on. He needed to get to the bottom of things—and fast. After all, it was Friday, and he could not imagine having to spend an entire weekend cooped up like this, all sense on hyperdrive, watching, watching… for a tangible threat to reveal itself.
But then, it wasn't like there really was a threat, right? There couldn't be, not for real. Although he seriously doubted that it was nothing.
America just hoped he'd get out of this. Preferably before he wen't crazy with fear. Before the paranoia really got to him.
Unfortunately, he feared the paranoia had already begun to do just that.