A/N: PLEASE READ!

Hi, everyone!

This is my first-ever fanfiction submission. I've written for a while, but never actually had the guts to try publishing anything. So, here we go. If it goes well, then I'll continue; if not, oh well, I'll just keep using my siblings as my audience.

Please note the following:

1. As far as references to mental illnesses in this fic go, I am assuming that nations deal with and experience such things in a way not always identical to human experiences. That being said, I apologize for any inaccuracies.

2. Any offensive language, especially racial slurs, is used solely for the purpose of historical accuracy. I do not mean to offend anyone, but as a story taking place in the Civil War era, there will be language that we today deem inappropriate. If you have complaints with this, I will be happy to further discuss the importance of language in any kind of literature privately.

3. Um... please enjoy! Thank you for taking the time to read this!

I

America groaned aloud, nursing his head in his hands. England, America knew, would have told him to see someone for the worsening, constant headaches years ago- back in 1850, when he'd gone a whole week out of commission due to a massive headache, as though another person were trying to escape from his head.

He chuckled at the thought. Yes, England would certainly-

Oh, for the love of God, forget what England would say!

Ah, yes. There was also the voice. England would not approve.

The voice was certainly worrisome. It was something America could not quite describe without sounding insane. Then again-

Quit thinking and get me a drink, damn it all!

Then again, America continued, absently making his way toward his strongest liquor, perhaps he was insane. Here he was, obeying the commands of thoughts not his own, hearing the voice of another within his head… He downed a whiskey- who cared what kind?- and poured another. The voice was one which had started speaking in America's mind shortly after Jefferson Davis claimed the right of nullification for South Carolina. He had failed miserably, of course, but that, in addition to the headaches, was more than enough trouble for America.

He sighed to himself. The southern states were growing restless: the voice kept repeating that.

Damn straight they are! And they'll secede before any of those nigger-loving, abolitionist Yanks have their way!

America glared suspiciously at the whiskey bottle. Those definitely were not his thoughts. Those were the thoughts of the South, to be sure, but not of America! Not of the country as a whole, and certainly not of the man, Alfred F. Jones! What was happening to him?

The White House butler cleared his throat at America's office doorway. "Pardon me, sir," he pleaded. "But your appointment is here."

"Appointment?" How much had he forgotten so quickly? Did he have an appointment today?

"Mister Arthur Kirkland and the Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy, sir."

Ah, England and France! The slaves of King Cotton… Other than the actual slaves, of course…

"Shut up," America muttered, running a hand through his already-messy hair, making his way down to meet the Europeans. "Don't need you messing with my head while I'm trying to work things out with them…"

You still don't get it, do you? I'm not messing with your head. I'm not even in your head! I am your head!

"No, you're not! I told you to shut up!"

Two pairs of eyes- one a grassy green, the other sapphire-blue- looked up at America in concern at the sudden outburst. It took America a moment to realize that he'd just spoken out loud to no one in particular (to an outsider, anyway). He was officially losing it.

Losing it? You lost it years ago, boy! You're just now realizing it!

America bit back the growl that threatened to sound at the words in his head. He forced a smile, blocking out the voice. "England. France. How are you?"

England did not speak, enormous eyebrows furrowing as he studied America. France smiled back graciously. "Mon petit Amerique," he greeted, bowing. "We are most well… But you?" Now France's concern showed past the constant (sometimes sickening) gentleness in his eyes. "If you do not mind, you are looking quite ill…"

America waved a hand in France's direction, as though shooing away a mosquito in the disgusting Southern humidity.

See? Even in a simple gesture! I'm always with you!

"I'm fine," he let out between his gritted teeth. "A little stressed, is all." He made his way toward the room's liquor cabinet. "Nothing a drink can't fix," he continued, rambling. "Can I get you gentlemen anything? I actually just got a fresh import from-"

"You never drink," England muttered suspiciously. "Especially not during meetings. You tend to make bad decisions when you drink…"

"What are you talking about?" America laughed. "I always make good decisions! I'm the United States of America!"

"Does 'the Articles of Confederation' ring a bell?" England asked, teasing. America's reaction, however, was quite unexpected.

"Hell, yes, it does!" America exclaimed. "One of the best damn decisions I ever made!"

The Europeans glanced at each other, then back at America.

"How, exactly?" England ventured. "You couldn't do anything; you had no order! No sense of security! No central pow-"

"As it should have stayed!" America interrupted, wine glass suddenly shattering in his hand. "With the states in charge of things, and the federal government out of their business!"

"Ah…" France raised a hand to speak. "Was it not the fault of those same Articles that it took you years to pay me from that petit revolution, and that kept you from getting mon cher Antoine to leave your borders?"

"It would've happened eventually, old man!" France's eyes widened as America's English suddenly took a turn for the worse, developing one of those awful regional accents he loved so much. "And it would've happened while giving the states their rights! None of this nullification, none of this secession, none of this-!"

"Secession?" England echoed, eyes wide. He stood, and strode over to the raging American's side, putting a hand to the taller nation's forehead. "You're quite warm today, lad; maybe we ought to leave this…"

"No…" And America's voice was small, even as he tried to make it stronger, more casual. "I'm fine. My apologies…" He bowed to the other two. "Please… We have cotton to deal, do we not?" He took a seat. "Now, what was our deal after the last time?" He poured a large glass of some vintage red (a gift from Italy last July) and downed it in a single gulp. England's raised eyebrows and France's cringe at America's lack of proper drinking etiquette went unnoticed. He closed his eyes, muttering to himself.

"Shut up… Just shut up…."

Why? You know I was right!

"No… George… They were bad… Damn Prussia, getting me drunk…"

And it was the best night you'd had in a long time. But I wonder what- or rather, who- could have made it better, hm? Perhaps… someone in this very room?

"Shut. Up! You know nothing about me!" America screamed, abandoning the wine glass in favor of clutching his ringing head, keeping the bayonet within at bay. He could feel the tears burning his eyes.

Quite the contrary- I know everything about you! I! Am! You!

CRACK!

Despite the lack of a physical whip, America cried out in pain, feeling the lash against his brain.

"Please… Stop, I'm begging you…"

"America?" This quietly, almost frightened, from England.

"Brother, make him go away…"

France, always one eager to observe the confusing-yet-sweet relationship between the United States and the United Kingdom, glanced to England, eyes wide.

"Who, America?" England hid his desperation well. "I can't do much if I don't know-" He stopped at the sight of the young man, weaker now than he'd been in years. "I can't do much…" he repeated. You've pushed me away whenever I've tried for the past… Almost 90 years...

The discussion from that point was tense and uneasy. The Europeans hid it, however, silently agreeing to discuss this whole situation later.

Let me know what you thought! Do you want the next chapter? Let me know by reviewing!