America's new president sure was tall.
That top hat wasn't helping too much, either.
When the two first met, America was a little taken back. This wasn't the man who he'd heard rumors about? Where was this monster who wanted to bring America to ruins? Where was this beast that burned crops, broke apart families, and who would eventually lead the American civilization to devastation?
I couldn't be the man who America was now shaking hands with. These hands that were so warm and strong, calloused from obvious hard days of physical labor.
When America, who was tall for his age, had to look up to see his new boss' face, and looked into those deep brown eyes; eyes that looked so old and sad. Eyes that belonged to a terrible man who was against anything American?
No. America couldn't believe those stories that the old rich Southern farmers told him.
This man wanted to end something that was slowly killing America.
America could feel it on the inside, the slow, dull pain that was eating away at his core.
The young country had felt it ever since he had gained his independence from England- ever since he began bringing those slaves from Africa over.
He knew, even though he really wished he didn't, that those farmers beat their slaves. Sometimes even, when he couldn't sleep at night, he would hear the slaves' singing.
They would sing about their own freedom, how they would be with their families again, and how they would finally be in peace when they go to heaven, even if they didn't get their freedom.
Those songs would make America cry. They brought back painful memories.
He did feel bad, really and truly, but he also knew that without them, his economy would crumble, and his people would starve.
But now, he felt that with his new president, maybe-just maybe, they could stop this inhumane cruelty.