My sense of taste was the first to break.
Which, lemme tell you, sucked.
No longer could I savor the delicate combination of bun, meat, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise that is dubbed The Cheeseburger. Nor could I indulge in the best delicacy in the world, also known as Heshey's milk chocolate. Lost to me was the glorious concoction of corn syrup and whatever the hell else was in one cold glass of Coca-Cola.
On the upside, now I didn't have to taste the unrest in the air.
Next was touch.
It was strange, foreign even, to stand in the middle of a rainstorm and not feel a thing. To accidently slice my finger on the edge of a broken cup and just watch the blood ooze. I suppose numbing my body was just my coping method as I watched my government fall apart.
After that was smell, which, yanno, you wouldn't think was too bad to lose. I mean, no more disgusting car fumes, right? Or the stench of burning buildings. Or perhaps the sickening odor of the dead bodies that were piling in the empty alleyways…
Up until this point, I had continued to attend the world conference meetings.
Despite what we tell ourselves and each other, we all were just prideful fools that wanted to be the most successful country of the bunch. Each of us (except maybe Italy) wouldn't think twice, when given reputation-ruining information, before stabbing each other in the back. Which is why I had to pretend like nothing was happening.
Like my country wasn't, at that very moment, rebelling against my government. Like states weren't trying to secede from the union. Like I wasn't forced to move around because citizens somehow found out about me and were now vandalizing my home.
I used to think that I could go to Iggy, or Matt, or even Francis, but I've been around for more than a millennium now; I've grown up.
But, after I broke my hearing, I decided it was pointless for me to go to the meetings anymore. Not only could I not hear what they had to say, I was exhausted. I couldn't hide my fatigue anymore.
Just the other day I saw a protestor being kicked to the ground by a police officer. He was a young man, just standing there, holding a sign and yelling just like the other protestors.
My legs had moved on their own. My arm drawing back and punching the offending officer, all in one fluid, silent motion. His face connected with my fist, but I couldn't feel it; just like I didn't feel it when he hit me back. It was just, one moment I was standing, and the next moment I was on the ground.
He beat me then, with the butt of his gun. On a human, one hit would knock them out cold, but I was an abnormally strong country and, even in my weakened state, could handle a few hits.
Then I broke my sight.
I was in my living room. And on my television was a view of the white house…burning down.
My heart had stopped then.
"As you can see behind me, the iconic white house, representing the American government for centuries, has been set on fire by protestors."
I couldn't hear the newscaster, but I could read. At the bottom of the screen scrolled the words, "The United States of America has officially been disbanded."
My vision began darkening, and I fell to my knees as shock froze my body up.
The last thing I saw was my precious red, white, and blue stars and stripes burning.
Then it was just dark.
No sound.
No light.
No stimulus of any kind.
Just me.
I spent the next few centuries in this sort of limbo, with only me to pass the time. And the problem with that was that after the U.S. was deemed not a country anymore, I had to deal with the countries that followed.
Every few decades some hot shots thought they were take my land and my people and create their own nation, which would never make it past the "sermons to the common folk and passing flyers" stage. Except, these small, insignificant efforts did result in one thing. A new personified country. That was a resident of my head.
I developed a multiple personality disorder, if you will. Every new ploy to gain power, that would eventually flop, created a new voice in my mind. And these voices eventually added up, each one trying to talk louder to the other, until I lost the ability to feel.
The last thing I broke was my spirit.
That is, until I was revived a few hundred years after my fall.
The voices in my head had never exactly died; they just blurred together, and were background noise.
But I heard a new voice, which stirred me from my repose. It was new, invigorating, full of ideas and life. It invaded every part of my mind with its name.
Panem.
AN: Hey readers, I just wanted to let you all know that I've changed what was written in this chapter. I know it's not much more than before, but I enjoy the way this chapter turned out, versus the last.
Hopefully I can start on this story, now that I've established the tone I want it to take.