Vindicated
The day's conference had been long, and the hero needed some rest. Coffee could only fuel a nation for so long. Drearily he lifted his head from its lackadaisical position on the conference table and tried to find the will to move. Countries filed out, some in pairs, some alone... some eyeing him empathetically... With his back erected to a sitting position, leather gloves rubbed the haze out of his eyes. How long had this meeting lasted? He looked to the clock on the wall before decided he didn't really care. A few labored breaths later, he stood and left, alone as always.
Work. So much work was left to be done. File after file after file. Staring at the pile of papers on his desk, he decided it'd be best to get some rest, lest he ruin something else. The empty glass of whiskey in his hand didn't exactly give him the motivation he needed either. Setting it aside, he stepped into his washroom.
And so began his nightly ritual, at least for the nights he actually allowed himself sleep. First came the gloves. In two fluent motions, the accessories fell carelessly to the floor. Somber blue eyes couldn't help but stare at the worn looking hands he adorned. Thin scars grazed his tanned skin in criss cross patterns. Why did he have to take his gloves off first anyway? It only ever reminded him of his failures; but, then again, it all had to come off eventually...
"England...England you're hurting me..." a frail adolescent boy spoke with fear present in his eyes. Whimpering would only anger his brother even more so. Tiny specks of red littered the floor below him. He could have accepted punishment if it was for his own good, but this was simply too far... There was no meaning to this. "You will learn to respect me and my rules!", furrowed brows and empty green eyes. What was wrong with this man? In between a sadistic expedition and the ever present glare of insanity, he realized that this was not how a child should be treated. The shaking hands of the Brit continued to cut angry lines into the young boys hands.
With averted watering eyes the boy spoke up. "You shouldn't be doing this..." All at once the man stopped in his sick fascination. "Wh-What?", the strangled look of shock plastered to the mans face scared the boy even more so. What was wrong his brother? "You're...you're hurting me... This isn't right..." head hung low, sweat dripped off his creased brow. A staring contest ensued before the Brit threw the razor to the floor. "You will do as I tell you! No questions asked!" And with a single word, he started a war. "...no..."
A stinging sensation reverberated in his chest. The glassy reflection in the mirror he stared at did nothing to soothe his discomfort. With a heavy sigh, his work continued. His prized leather jacket fell to floor along with the discarded gloves. The room felt cool and pleasant to the skin, but he instantly felt a sense of security torn away. Sun kissed skin gleamed in the sterile lights of his bathroom as tight muscles clenched underneath. His arms would be perfect if not for the thick scraping scars lining them.
"You're making this too easy!" the strong British accent rung through the high seas. He couldn't understand just why England was doing this...impressing his sailors, raiding his towns and burning his ships... His independence had been won years ago. He'd undergone unimaginable pain, what more did England want from him?
Canons soared through the air attacking his ships once again. He knew better than to try to stop it now. Whenever he foolishly thought he could calm his former care taker with words, he would be given that same stare from his childhood. The stare that chilled him to the bone. One of someone slightly off their rocker...glints of uncertainty sometimes shone through, but those occasions were rare.
He wasn't afraid of England hurting him. He'd been through so much already that he'd grown comfortably numb. The cannons and splintering wood tearing his skin could prove testimony to that. What tore him was what England could do to himself...
Maybe, just perhaps, if he let the Brit take it out on him, he wouldn't do anything to himself. He could give the man a false sense of victory to sate his blood lust for revenge. He had decided right then and there that this would atone for his sins. Though, what sins were his, and which were England's were hard to decipher at the time.
His shirt was hastily removed, its sullen white form fluttered to the floor. Sweat clung to his aching body. Stretching his arms to either side felt pleasant to his strained shoulders, but did little to help his dejected mind.
If anyone asked him, he would have told them that he had his appendix removed. A few nervous chuckles here and there and anyone would believe him, or so he hoped. And after a while, he truly wished he could learn to believe it himself.
Pain...Sudden gasps were all he could manage. Fallen to his knees, he could barely make out the blurry image of England walking away triumphantly. He didn't know where this had gone so wrong, but he couldn't even think. He supposed simply sating the Brits desire for revenge just wasn't enough... He wanted more... England had stabbed him.
He didn't wanted to go to war with England again, but his body couldn't handle the constant bombardment he was receiving from the Brit anymore. 1812 was his breaking point.
His eyes began to glaze over from the pure agony he was in. The fires burning his capitol were nearly put out, but the sound of bullets whistling through the air continued. The option of returning fire on England danced viciously in his mind, but ultimately he knew he could never do it. All he could do was wait for it all to be over.
Shuddering over the sink, he splashed cool water onto his face. His reflection yielded a tired boy. His wheat colored hair stuck to his forehead recklessly and his blue eyes seemed dull. His tanned skin seemed to have lost its healthy glow as of lately, but who could blame him? Shaking off the remainder of the water on his face, he turned his back to the mirror."Who said life was easy?" he muttered to himself.
With ease he slipped his shoes and socks off, never bothering the give the burn marks on his foot a glance. Pearl harbor had been rough, but those wounds had healed a long time ago. They meant nothing to him.
Finally, he came to the epitome of the days misery.Slowly he un-buckled his pants and let them fall into a crumpled heap. Stepping out of them, he could feel the shame of his own foolishness bubbling inside him.
"Hey England!" he smiled, swallowing any fear he had left. He though that enough time had passed. It'd been years since he'd seen the off kilter look that he dreaded in his youth. So much time had passed that he considered England incapable of using such a weapon anymore. There was no turning back now. Steadily, he marched up to say what he would while trying to cling onto the immense pile of papers each nation had been given to fill out. "I...I was wondering if you'd want to go on a- UFF" approaching the Brit from behind had been a bad idea. As England whipped around speedily to see what the fool wanted, he bumped into the idiot causing both their papers to fall.
A moment of silence was instilled before he could gather his thoughts. "Oh, I, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-". "You idiot!" the older nation shouted, fury bubbling over in his eyes. "Do you know how bloody long it's going to take me to re-sort every thing out?" His shouts echoed through the halls of the meeting house, drawing everyone's attention to the pair.
"I, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to-" Wide blue eyes averted themselves from the wrath engorged in green. "'I didn't mean to' my arse! Can't you do anything without bloody fucking ruining it?" With that the brit tossed his hot coffee into the man's lap, and stomped away, leaving the nation with nothing to do but sit back down and wait for the meeting to resume.
Sitting on the floor of his bathroom, he observed the red mark left on his legs. Although it would heal in a few days, it hurt worse than any of his previous injuries. With a disgruntled sigh, he stood up and walked to his bed, and plopped down stiffly.
Staring into his ceiling he decided it would be acceptable for him to let a few tears slide past his radar. No need to hide it while he was alone. As he let himself drain his sorrow down his face, a single thought echoed through his skull; "Why must I hurt Britain so?"