Wallowing in a pool of misery—yes, that was a fine way to spend an afternoon day, thought England to himself. No one loved him anymore; he was alone in this world. Other men rejoiced in his misery right at this very moment. He wanted him to suffer. He wanted him to starve. And to accomplish that, he starved himself.
It was the twisted, sad fate of poor England. He had just fought a war, and now he had to deal with more separation. He was exhausted, and could not fight the impending divorce from all of his beloved colonies. Gold Coast. Rhodesia. India. Oh, India, England thought. How would he ever get any curry now? India always made the best curry. But now India was starving himself, and England got no curry.
England grabbed a bottle of scotch and chugged. Well, not really chugged. Then, England's innards would come out. It was more like large sips.
As the hours went by, and his vision became blurrier and blurrier, England thought of America, when he was younger. Oh, how he loved America, and America loved him. But then America became a teenager, and he wanted independence, so he left England. England felt the tears roll down his cheeks, a rainstorm of angst besieging his face.
"Alone, alas! I am alone!" England cried out to no one. "Why do they leave me, God? Foul spirits? Why, why?"
In his drunkenness, England picked up the phone and dialed America. "Why did you leave me?" he sobbed when America picked up.
"Dude, get over yourself. That was almost two hundred years ago, yo."
"Now India's leaving me. What should I do? Curry!" cried England.
"Learn to cook curry yourself. I don't know, man," America replied indifferently.
"I've tried. It's terrible." England sighed melodramatically.
"Are you drunk?"
"Why does everyone leave me, America? WHY?" The pain in England's voice was incredible. And America didn't care.
"You're a jerk, man. That's just it."
England felt as if a hand reached into his chest cavity and pulled his heart out. "Am I? Do you still love me, America? I raised you, I—"
America hung up. England stared at the phone for a solid ten minutes, trying to get his drunk head wrapped around what just happened.
A hand tapped his shoulder. England whipped around, startled. "Who—India?"
An emaciated, dark skinned man gave him a small, sad smile. "Hello, England. We are officially parting ways, yes?"
England nodded, at a loss for words.
"Look, you don't seem to understand. I'll talk to you about it later, when you're sober. Yes?"
Again, England nodded, not quite sure what was happening.
"Bye. There is curry on the counter." India turned around and walked away, leaving England forever.
England crept to his dinner table, and there sat a bowl of beef curry. He took a spoon and ate it, savoring every last drop.