America awoke with a start. A yellowing ceiling stared back at him. He turned his head, and moved his arms to stretch, only to find that they had been bound to the head of the bed. "What the…?" He breathed, pulling his arms against the ropes. "H-hey!"
For once, with all of his pulling and strength, nothing seemed to happen. He tried to kick his legs, but found they were bound too.
Finding he was able to turn his head, he decided to give the room a look over as best as possible. Dim light lit the room from an old pair of bulbs hanging from the ceiling. He found he was lying on a bed with pale pink sheets, and the walls had pale, pale yellow wallpaper, starting to crumple with age. The floors were standard hardwood, with an oval rug consuming most of the area in the middle. An antique dresser with a mirror sat across from him, and next to it was a window with the blinds drawn. A closed door stood at the end of the bed, and America could vaguely see another door near the bed out of the corner of his eye. Another door seemed to appear next to the first, and then another after that. America blinked, and the extra doors disappeared.
As America studied the room, the images began to twist. The walls merged, separated, and changed colours. A wave of images crashed over his eyes, things that didn't make sense flew through his mind. The ceiling fell on him, but it turned to water the second it touched his skin. The floor sunk away only to be replaced with grass a moment later. The walls lit up like Las Vegas, and laughter flowed from the vents.
A crowd of people snuck out of the corners, gathering around the bed to poke and jeer at him. They had no faces, though that didn't stop them from making awful comments. They joked about his appearance, his intelligence, his skills, his government, his diet- anything their terrible minds could come up with.
America yelled at them to stop. They were hurting his head. It felt as if they were crawling inside of his ears, planting their seeds of despair into his mind.
He swatted at the figures as best he could, cursing at them and calling them any names he could think of. While it didn't seem like the most educated approach, it still beat just sitting there.
Suddenly England was standing over him, talking. England wasn't England, it seemed. He seemed too tall, not big enough eyebrows, and since when did England wear robes of silk? Was his hair always to the floor? America tried to remember, but couldn't. England's hair suddenly retracted into his skull, until all of his skin followed suit, and then England blinked out of existence.
And then England reappeared, opened his mouth, and suddenly France was in his place, shoving food at him. When America looked at the food, it squirmed and screamed. France looked at America with his eyes watering, tears pouring out and creating pools at his feet. The pools grew, and filled the room, swallowing the bed. America cried out, an instinct-like fear of drowning gripping his heart and making him seize against the ropes. Then, all at once, the water evaporated. France stood, looking dumbfounded at America.
"Amérique?" He asked.
He suddenly began to age rapidly, becoming an old man, until he was crippled, falling to the bedside. And then he was back on his feet, a hand on America's face, his hair tickling America's nose.
America tried to speak, to ask what was going on, but his tongue wasn't cooperating. He tried to ask for help, but found it was in another language, and he tried to cry, but found only sand escaping from his eyes.
France blinked and turned into Canada, whose curled grew until it wrapped around his entire body. Canada spoke in a native dialect, and America responded in such. At least something was working out. But then Canada began to laugh, his mouth splitting wide in half, his head thrown back so forcefully that his neck split in half.
America screamed, waiting for blood to flow. Confetti shot out of the gaping hole, and with a poof, Canada disappeared, and England to returned in his spot.
England was low, wiping a rag over the American's face, trying to soothe him. Although America couldn't make out the words, he could tell that he was trying to help.
But then England began to smile, too big for any regular person, his teeth growing sharp, his mouth like that of the Cheshire cat's. "Don't worry, love, this will only be a pinch," he cackled, pulling a long thin knife from his waist-coat pocket, and jamming it into America's arm.
America howled in agony, fire searing through his veins. The world was burning, burning, burning. Oh god, they set the house on fire and left him here. He couldn't move. Could he move his face? Could he move his head? No, no, no! He wanted to yell, but couldn't. Where was the smoke? He could feel the flames licking at his skin, tasting before continuing their endeavour to consume him. He was going to burn to death and they would be joyous at his demise.
And then darkness.
Then next time America awoke, there was light coming in through the window. His eyes drifted to the sight, and his confusion tripled. It appeared that he was up high, in a building overlooking a thick jungle, his window stories above the tops of the trees.
He glanced down at his attire, confused. Why was he wearing tight black skinny jeans? He'd never owned a pair before in his life. And his shirt- why was he wearing a vest and tie with a white button up? True, it was something he would have worn at some point, but it seemed odd to be bound to a bed in such attire.
Speaking of which… America attempted to move his arms again, and this time found them not to be tied. He brought them down to his sides, sitting up to move to the window. Only, he found his legs still tied to the end of the bed. When he tried to touch the rope, his skin sizzled, and he pulled his hand away with a yelp.
Ooookay. Not going to try that again anytime soon, he thought, glumly slumping back down.
America's eyes wandered about the room, when he noticed another pair staring at him, from the ceiling to be more specific. The lights had been removed, and in their place were two bright blue eyes. They stared at him intently, as if waiting for a performance to begin.
The nation shuddered, and turned away from them, looking anywhere but directly at them. The ticking of the clock- had there always been a clock there?- took in his attention. It was 25:87, according to the clock. America frowned. Something seemed off about it, but he couldn't place his finger on it.
He happened to glance back at the eyes. Oh great, a nose joined them. Slowly, a face began to push its way through the ceiling, until an entire head hung down, still staring at America. Then, with a pop! the head and rest of the body fell from the ceiling, and landed next to America.
A tall man with a white wig stood in front of the bewildered nation. He dusted himself off, and offered America a warm smile. "George?" America asked tentatively.
The man gave a curt nod. "Hello America. My, it's been a while, hasn't it?" he said, sitting down on the bed next to his nation.
"Like, 300 years, dude. Aren't you supposed to be kind of dead? Wait, are you a ghost?!" America said, paling at the thought. "Please don't possess me! I promise I've been good!"
Washington chuckled. "I'm not here to possess you, lad. I'm here to give you a warning."
"A warning?" America repeated.
"You are in danger." America's eyes jumped to the clock. Did it always have legs to go with the hands?
"Danger? From what?" America's eyes felt like they were swimming.
"The enemy." Washington said, his face serious and his eyes grave. The clock was kicking at the wall now. "You must not listen to them."
"Who? Who is the enemy?"
"Them." Washington gestured around the two of them, to the empty air. The clock began to crawl on the way. It was making its way towards the hole in the ceiling. "You will know them when you see them."
"I will?" America mentally cursed himself for sounding like a parrot. He didn't grow wings, did he?
George Washington nodded. "You will. It will be easy to tell them apart from the ones who are there to help."
America stared at him, confused. "What… what do you mean? What's going on?"
Washington laughed. "Always so full of questions! You haven't changed a bit!"
The clock had scuttled its way to the hole, and seemed to be nibbling at the plasters edges. Washington glanced up at the clock, ignoring the nation's question. "It looks like my time is, quite literally, up. I have to go."
Washington stood to leave, his gigantic state making him tower over America. "Wait!" the nation called, straining against the ropes on his arms. Damn, when did they reappear? Why did they have to be tied to the wall?
Washington paused, and looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"
America stared at him for a minute. A million questions raced through his mind, but none seemed to be able to come out.
Washington smiled at him again with his warm smile. "It was nice to see you again, lad," he said softly, and then faded into dust. The clock was sucked up the hole. The gaping hole filled itself once more, and the lights grew back out of it.
America laid back down as best he could, and was soon overcome by the urge to sleep.
Although he wasn't sure how much time had passed, there was one thing he was sure he absolutely despised: America hated to wake up. He never knew what was going to greet him once he did. Reality never seemed like it was real any more, and even on the brief chances that it did, America was extremely sceptical of everyone.
He was sure he had figured out who it was now that Washington had warned him of. Of course, it wasn't too hard to figure out when they were the ones who came to your bedside when you're tied up.
For whatever reason America could fathom, England, France, and Canada had teamed up to take him down. They had tied him to a bed in another universe, it seemed, where nothing was ever the same. He blamed England, mostly, because who else could out them all in another dimension without all of the weird magic junk? Of course, America had contemplated escaping. However, he wasn't even sure if they were in the same world anymore, and where they could possibly be if so.
America learnt early on that most of the food that they were giving him was completely poisonous. Anything he tried to eat, his body immediately rejected it, and it was sent back up his throat not ten minutes later. And then the vomit would begin to increase, multiplying and growing and become a living species that threaten to engorge America's body.
Yeah, waking up was definitely the worst thing.
Not only did he have to deal with the enemy constantly staring him down, but he also began to fear the dimensions changings. Sometimes there would be crowds of people in his room, whispering to each other but never approaching America. Sometimes, he woke up in a room where there was absolutely nothing, only white walls and filled with a complete void
The absolute worst as when he woke up surrounded by darkness. He couldn't see anything, he was certain he had gone blind, but then he saw them.
Hands, hundreds of pale, grotesque human hands began to float towards him. The hands were malformed, fingers gnarled, some with bone piercing through the skin, the nails bloodied and halfway falling off. They began to reach out to touch him, to grab at his clothes and his skin, to tug his hair and his ropes, to pinch his cheeks and scratch at his arms. They pulled at his limbs, trying to tear him apart.
He had screamed, howled, but it continued for hours- maybe even days. The ghostly hands never once stopped in their pursuit of ripping him apart. America was scared shitless.
When it felt like years had passed, the hands receded, back into the shadows, red sticking out against the pale white.
Yeah, that had been one of the worst experiences.
And oh, the wounds!
The ropes that seemed to tie his arms in a different position every day rubbed horribly so! His wrists dribbled puss and blood anytime he tried to move, and he bit his tongue to stop himself from yelling with pain. (Of course, that didn't stop him from complaining to his captors about them.)
He was certain that at some point he'd been ripped open, too, but he didn't see any blood from it, only a dull, throbbing pain straight down his middle. It was painful, but he didn't dare wish to beg for pain relief.
How could he let himself appear weak to his captors? True, he had screamed at multiple occasions, but he wasn't even completely sure that the whole hands thing had been their fault. Could have just been the dimension, after all. (But if they put me in here, wouldn't that make that their fault then? America often pondered this, but the thought would come in a fleeting second, before overcome with other things to think about.)
America's head was beginning to become clouded with the days, and he wasn't even sure if he was alive anymore. Perhaps he had somehow died and was being tortured for all eternity. That would make sense. He had done some pretty brutal things in his life time, many that he would be ashamed to admit. Hell seemed to be the only decent place to store a nation.
And what worse way to be tortured than to be hurt by those who you love?
Though… now that America thought about it, the three of them never really did anything to him themselves, not that he saw, anyway. But who else was to blame for this madness?
America woke up, and realised something odd. He was standing. Not only that, but the walls and the floor seemed to be replaced by sandpaper.
When he bent over to examine the sand paper, a loud grinding noise sounded, and the floor began to move. Like a treadmill, America thought, and began to walk. His shoeless feet began to screech in protest, but he could only imagine what would happen if he stopped moving.
The ground began to pick up pace, and soon America had to do a light trot to keep up. Nervous that this pattern would continue, America sprinted to the front most wall (or what he guessed was, it was a little hard to tell when all of the walls looked the same) and banged on it. "HEY! Let me out!" He yelled, throwing his body against the wall, only to fall and be carried backwards.
America immediately stood, and ran to the wall again. He tried to punch a hole in the wall, only for his hand to begin to bleed immensely.
He grunted in pain, and tried to jump kick the wall. The only thing that broke was America's hand as he fell. The flesh that met the moving sandpaper was torn, and began to ooze blood. Shit shit shit shit shit.
The nation groaned as he pulled his hand to his chest, and kept up his light trot.
"No way out…" he breathed.
It seemed as though he had been placed in an impossible box. No exit, no entrance, and only a painful death awaiting him if he gave up.
America walked for days. His feet were torn up by the ground, the endless sandpaper eating away at his skin.
He no longer felt the pain, and felt numb in his mind.
America felt as his legs began to shake. One step later, America felt to the ground.
"No more…" he begged.
His body was slowly dragged to the back of the room.
America closed his eyes, waiting for the grinding to tear away at his back.
It never came. His back fazed through the wall.
America sat straight up in bed, and stared forward. A startled Canada looked back at him. "America?"
"Ungh…" America moaned. He held his hand out to Canada to look at. With a hideous crack his wrist snapped.
"America!" Canada cried. America's eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell back into the bed.
Canada took in the appearance of his brother. Cotton pants, like always, a cotton t-shirt, and bruises covering every inch. His now broken wrist hung limply at his side, and his breath shuddered with every exhale.
"Oh America," Canada whispered, sponging off America's face, "What're you doing to yourself?"
"C'mon, America, you'll have to eat sooner or later," England coaxed, trying to spoon the soup into America's mouth.
America thrashed, turning his head away, biting down so hard on the inside of his cheek that the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Don't eat it, don't eat it, don't eat it, it will make you sick he told himself.
"America…" England said, a heartbroken look flitting across his face. However, as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared, leaving only a scowl in its place. "Fuck it, I'm getting the sodding needle," he snapped, standing abruptly, and surging from the room. Or, should he say tent?
America wasn't sure what year it was anymore. Weren't they still in World War II? Wasn't that why they were in a tent? Germany had poisoned the food, right? And England… was on Germany's side? He was the enemy, he briefly remembered George Washington telling him that… wait, had he said that? Wasn't Washington dead- no wait, he had the clock with the hole in the ceiling, he had come back.
America frowned. Ceiling? What ceiling? They were in a tent, right? Hadn't they always been in a tent?
America stared off into where England had run. His vision swirled, changing the tents colours. He could hear arguing, but the voices were unrecognisable.
Tent… tent… tent… Where were all of the supplies? America looked about, looking for the medic packs, the extra food, other cots, but didn't see any.
Wasn't he in a tent to help his bullet wound? Wasn't he shot by Germany? England… where did England go? He wasn't still out there fighting, was he? No, he carried him into here, hadn't he? And France… France was out there, fighting off the rest of them, right? Maybe England had gone to help France. No, but they were off the battle field, too far away. Why were France and England helping him? They were helping Germany, right? America's head began to swim, little making sense. He couldn't ever remember them helping Germany, but maybe his memory wasn't quite right from the bullet.
Wait… When did I get shot? America thought blankly. He tried to recall, but nothing ever came to mind. Were they even in a war right now? A small voice in the back of his mind whispered that he was the only one in this war.
Unsure of what else he should do, America brought his hand to where he thought the wound was. Though his side felt wet, when he brought his hand to his eyes, there was nothing there.
Where were the nurses? What was going on?
The voices stopped. England then slithered back into the room- when did he get back in the room? – the bottom half of his body a snakes' tail, his upper half bare naked. He clenched a long thin pointy knife in his hand again.
Before America knew what was happening, England had grabbed his arm, and stabbed him with the knife. Oh, the fire. It consumed him once more. The light began to fade, and as his head lolled backwards, his eyes connected with England's
Distantly, it seemed, he was normal, clenching a needle and wearing modern day clothes, a look of worry plastered to his face.
"Enn….gland? W….aatz it?" America murmured.
Then everything became fuzzy yet again, and America succumbed to the blissful peace of sleep.
For once, America dreamed. He was in a house, and he could hear voices coming from the kitchen. They sounded worried and hasty.
"…can't keep him like this forever!"
"I know as well as you do that we can't keep him like this! He'll be fine soon! You'll see!"
Was that England? Oh! That's where he was! America took in his surroundings with an old familiarity. England's house.
He pushed the kitchen door open and peaked his head inside.
France was sitting at a table, watching a nervous looking England pace back and forth. England looked like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in months, maybe even years. He was tugging at his hair, his clothes were dishevelled, and his eyes were flitting everywhere.
Meanwhile, France was looking less glamorous than usual. His hair lacked its usual lustre and shine, and his eyes actually had bags underneath them. He looked just as tired as England, and less hopeful.
"He said my name today, France! He knew who I was! He's getting better!"
"That's because you drugged him, ton tète merde." France grumbled. France? Grumbling? Man, he must be really tired! America thought
"While that is true, frog," England said with more hostility than usual, "he normally would just pass out. He's never opened his eyes a second time. He's getting better. You'd know that if you actually helped out more rather than moping about and complaining about lack of sleep."
France flew up from his chair. "Fermez votre gueule! I do help out! You're not the only one suffering! I change his sheets every other day! I make him food that's actually edible!"
"Edible?!" England spat, storming up to France. "What does he care about what he eats? He nearly vomits everything back out! You think you get some special medal for changing his sheets every now and then?! Try cleaning his bedpan! Or giving him a sponge bath! How about spending an hour in there when he's screaming bloody murder!"
"I would, if you didn't yell at me when I try! L'Angleterre, we're all losing our minds here. It's not okay to hold onto this!"
"'This'?! This is America we're talking about!" England yelled, fire roaring in his eyes. Me? They're talking about me? America thought. I have to use a bedpan? America scrunched up his nose in disgust, and felt his cheeks heat up. "He's not just something we can let go of, you daft prick! Have your hair products finally melted your brain? The world can't survive without him!"
"Tu connard, your eyebrows are so big they're clouding your vision, aren't they? The world is starting to get better. It's surviving, mon amie."
"Barely," England growled, "And that's only because his place is still trading with everyone. He will make it through this! We need to keep aiding him!" England turned and resumed his pacing, his motions more frantic than the first time.
"L'Angleterre, stop kidding yourself. You know as well as I do what the most likely outcome of this whole thing will be. We will have to get by without him. There is going to be no other option."
"Like hell there is! Can you not give up on something for once in your entire existence, frog?!" America watched as England's fingers flexed. Subconsciously, America realised England was looking for a fight, he just didn't want to be the first one to throw a punch.
France sighed tiredly. "You have to let go of him. When the time comes… Without Amerique…" France left his sentence unfinished.
Without me?! America thought backing up. What?! Am I… am I dead? No, I can't be dead… I can't be! That's just not it! Then… what the fuck is going on?! I have to get away! This is just a bad nightmare!
The door stayed open, even though America wanted it to shut. He tried to turn away but found he couldn't.
"There isn't going to be a 'without America!' You know it won't happen! It's not possible! We're going to help him! Stop giving me crap, frog! You know that I- we can save him! Stop being a lazy coward for once in your worthless life, and help the sodding fool!" England screamed, stomping up to glare in France's face.
France scowled. "I'm not going to keep fighting for something that's a lost cause."
"Lost cause?! He's not a lost cause! We just have to keep trying! We can't abandon him!"
"You need to, l'Angleterre. You're holding onto a dead body!"
"He's not dead, you wanker! He's alive and we can hear him scream!"
"Why are you trying so hard, hm? You claim to hate him on a daily basis!" France spat back, changing the subject.
"Because how the hell would you feel watching the one you love go mental?!" Britain yelled, his face red and spittle flying out.
Silence filled the kitchen. Not a sound was made.
England collapsed onto France's shoulder, sobbing.
France rubbed England's back. France's face was not one of anger, or of defeat, but one of pure pity, one America had sure as hell never seen cross his face when dealing with England.
"I can't…. lose him again!... I just can't!" England sobbed into France's shirt. "Goddamn it, why?"
England curled his fists into the fabric of France's shirt, and couldn't help himself from wailing more.
France pulled England closer to his chest, and stroked his hair. America tried desperately to pull away from the scene, and found he finally could. Just as he was fading away, he could hear France mumble something to England.
"Shh, mon ami, c'est pas grave. C'est pas grave. Tu es bien. Il est va ne souffrir plus."
America lurched forward in his bed. Well, he tried to at least. His body was suspended high above a metal plate, chains wrapped around his middle and limbs.
And then he screamed.
Hey guys! Okay, so I'm sorry for this being kind of crack-y, but there is a reason for it! (Besides the fact that I wrote most of this while I was sleep deprived. It's the best way I can get inspiration.) And you shall find out the reason when I update with the second half of this, tomorrow or so. This is only a two-shot, so nothing big. Hopefully I didn't confuse you dudes too much?
Review if you'd like. Thank you for reading!