Memories are perhaps the greatest burden that can weigh heavily on a man, yet in a strange, almost twisted irony, memories are regarded as precious treasures from the past that must not, cannot be buried under the sands of time. This was a lesson that England knew well in his years of trying to dismiss it. In his opinion the past was better left forgotten, all that his was composed of was light draining out of his opponent's eyes as they were torn asunder by swords or bullets, the type of weapon was irrelevant. Tears that fought for room in his eyes as he was forced to endure bitter defeat. Lying in a pool of vomit, from the alcohol that was the only friend that could soothe the centuries worth of memories of that madness, and pain that haunted him in his waking moments or vested him during nightmares. Sometimes he wondered, just how nations such as China or Greece, who outnumbered even him for how long they walked this Earth, have not gone insane from the resulting onslaught.
Despite all of that, his worst memory did not stem from the many wars fought with France, that left him little more than a patchwork for how many scars riddled his body, or even the world wars that raged across Europe, smoke and ash swirled around in his lungs making him choke and reducing him to a sobbing wreck begging for the pain to stop-,but of America.
He hated him. He loved him. He hated the child for thinking that his mere 200 years of existence grants him the right to order around his elders. He loved how his eyes would light up from whatever childish idea that spewed from his mouth. He hated how the slob, whose food would be misses aimed at whoever was unfortunate enough to be standing in the blast zone, yet still has the nerve to criticize the immaculate appearance that was born from fretting over every detail that could compromise said appearance. He loved how his rugged looks complimented his rough personality, he always had one the Old West just cultivated it until it came to term. He hated how he abandon him, and never once looked back.
England, partially blamed himself for not noticing the signs of rebellion sooner, but America was such a sweet child back then. Small and innocent of the horrors that surrounded him even at that young age. Other nations who salivated at the fertile land that whispered riches and prosperity seductively in their ears, and eagerly waited for an opportunity to present itself to snatch the young nation for themselves. The thought made red danced across his vision and stripped the genitally of a gentleman away to reveal the monster who would stand atop their broken corpse, bloodstained hand clutched tightly in America's as the hungry flames devoured the world around them. He had to leave to protect America, but the child didn't, wouldn't, understand as his eyes would become fountains as he pleaded for England to stay, that there were ghost and goblins hiding in the dark corners of his room and he was the only one that could fight him off.
He was an idiot for not relaxing the little tantrums that America performed-refusing to clean up his room or sprinting every which way around the house to avoid the dreaded bath time- were small rebellions that alluded to the biggest one, but like the fool he was he allowed them to fester like an infected wound. Growing in intensity as days' passes. In his mind everything was going well, America was in his arms safe, and even if days that would bleed into months that would bleed into years before he could see him again,so busy trying to both build and maintain the Great Britain's superiority over his enemies. Then the Seven Years War happened, which became the catalyst for the destruction of their relationship.
First he complained about the taxes. As much as he loathes to admit it, England knew that the war had hit his economy hard. Besides, it was high time America's citizens paid their share of the taxes that his, no, their esteemed king ordered them to. The brat protested. It baffled England, honestly on the amount of sheer disrespect displayed by the colonists, with whom he granted the right to eve set foot on that land in order to practice religious freedom or ideologies, by boycotting the taxes, and dumped tea, his tea, over the ships which splashed into the murky, black waters of the Pacific Ocean. He punished them, of course in acts that the brat labeled intolerable, but he only saw them as his right to discipline unruly, spoiled children who thought they had the right to even breathe in Parliament chambers. America of course ranted and raved about this so called injustice and how it fringed upon his rights. England refused to take him seriously, choosing to divorce himself form the reality of the tensions between himself and America. Then war was declared, America refused to associate with him anymore, and England stopped pretending.
He amused himself with the boy in the beginnings stages of the conflict, confident in victory because while the brat boasted about his bold move in the form of declaring war against a superpower, his army was sloppily thrown together like pieces of a mismatched puzzle, all of the soldiers new to the feel of a bayonet in their hands and the stench of death and suffering that lingered after every battle, which threaten to smother them in despair. Even under the guidance of esteemed generals such as George Washington could not save the human insects from being squashed under his boot. Then France, why does it always have to be him, vowed to help America along with Prussia, the idiot, after that the ragtag group of misfits transformed to an elite fighting force.
Yorktown. How fitting for their final clash. Everyone gave up but him. His people tired of the taxes that weighed in their pockets all for a colony across the sea, his politicians who longs since lost the benefits of holding on to this measly colony, everyone but England's king wanted the war to stop. Maybe in the end he should have listened and relented but pride and his previous attachment to America chained him to this goal, this obsession.
The rain came down in icy sleets, drenching the fire that burned in his soldier's hearts as they accepted the inevitable defeat. All but England retreated. He refused to let America. the boy who started this damn war, the one that cost him so much in blood, sweat, and tears to go free. He refused to let America, the boy who came to him, England. The nation that everyone hated instead of France with his stupid hair and food or Finland, with warm eyes and smiles. Him. If the price of keeping America was in the form of killing the boy, so he would always have the memory of that sweet child, then it has to be done. Yet, as America stood waiting, his finger was frozen on the trigger that could send the bullet necessary to splattered his brains on the ground. A nice shade pink to join the other colors of red, white, and blue that were intermingling on the battlefield. He couldn't do it. He was a coward.
This revelation made England collapsed in the mud, sobbing like the child he wished he could be, but never was.
"You used to be so big." America said, as he stared down at the man that used to be so many things to him, a father, brother, and friend.
That confession was like a punch to the gut. It was only then, and only then that England knew he lost both the battle and America.