Lifeblood
Every night, he bleeds for them. The poor, the weak, the new democracies struggling to survive in the far corners of the earth. He figures it's his duty as a hero, to support everyone at his own cost. He figures he can take it. He figures wrong.
It is the evening of May 16, 2011. Alfred F. Jones is alone in the bathroom of his mansion. He sits on the toilet with the lid shut, head hanging down between his knees. With one hand, he presses a razor blade to the wrist of the other.
His left arm is already covered in scars. There are thirteen of them, each deeper than the last. But it's not enough, it's never enough, and he must make another.
Alfred breathes in and out, preparing himself. Then, with one quick movement, he slashes the blade across.
A hiss escapes from between clenched teeth. It is a strangely slippery feeling, more wrongness than pain. As the blood begins to flow, he closes his eyes and whispers some sort of mantra.
"Gupta. Hasna. Tirtza. Yao. Gupta. Hasna. Tirtza. Yao. Gupta, Hasna…"
It's like some sort of ancient sacrifice. Something the Mayans or Druids would do to appease angry gods. Even though America is a Christian country, this is the closest he ever gets to prayer.
I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own…
The room is dark, and music comes from a built-in speaker system in the ceiling. It is "Viva La Vida", by Coldplay, and it seems strangely appropriate. Alfred has always considered this to be Arthur's song, even though the other man hated it. But now its lyrics suit his own circumstances as well.
While he listens, Alfred watches the news on mute. On the TV screen, a man in a suit rants about the national debt. Alfred changes the channel, hoping to get something less personal. He wants to see the other nations' problems and be glad they're not his own.
But there's nothing on any channel about Kiku or Hasna. The earthquake and civil war have become old news. Once someone is no longer worthy of a story, it's like they stop existing altogether.
A knock at the door interrupts Alfred's unusually deep thoughts. He jumps out of his recliner and nearly falls over. Stars like those on his flag dance across his field of vision. He regains his balance and pastes a smile onto his face, but it falls short of his usual shit-eating grin.
Please don't be Yao…
Alfred yanks open the door with one sharp motion. It's only Matthew, standing awkwardly in the doorway.
"Hey, dude," says Alfred. "Why don't you come on in?" Matthew looks around warily, as if something in the house may bite him. He walks in, but doesn't sit on the couch.
"Alfred," he says. "We need to talk."
Alfred nearly bursts out laughing. "Do you even know how cliché that sounds?"
Matthew fidgets a bit. "Yeah, but-"
Alfred cuts him off mid-sentence. "I'm fine, bro. The sun is gonna rise soon. Do you want some coffee?"
The other blond man sighs, realizing that he has failed to get through to his brother again. "Okay…" he says in a defeated tone. "Put some maple syrup in mine."
Of course, Alfred doesn't hear him.