Rain pours from the sky, soaking me to the bone. The familiar, comforting weight of the rifle in my hands calms my nerves as I lean up against a tree. The men around me laugh and joke as they eat their rations, trying to lighten the mood. I just sit there, lost in thought.
"Jones, you okay?" one of the men asks. The sound of his voice brings me back to reality, and I look around nervously.
"Oh, yeah. I'm fine," I reply softly. "Just thinking about the war, is all."
"I see. Well, I can tell you one thing right now. We will win this war, and we will earn our independence!" Everyone cheers, and I smile.
"You're right. Those damn Redcoats don't stand a chance against us!" I yell, raising a fist skyward.
The chatter from before resumes, and I let my arm fall back to my side. The rain slows to a steady drizzle, and one of the lookouts runs into the camp.
"There's a band of Redcoats heading this way! Kirkland is with them, Jones!" he shouts. I'm on my feet in an instant, and so are the rest of my boys. We sprint in the direction the lookout came, and within seconds we can see the Redcoats.
"Take aim, boys! Wait for my signal, and remember that Kirkland is mine!" I yell, standing slightly in front of my troops. Kirkland does the same, and we glare each other down. Both sides just stand there, waiting for the order to fire. The Redcoats start to get antsy after a few minutes, but my boys are as still as statues.
It's funny how strong you are when you're fighting to protect something.
One of the Redcoats fires, and I give the order. All Hell breaks loose, and the screams of the wounded and the dying fill the air. Soon enough, though, only Kirkland is left alive. I march towards him, and he keeps his rifle trained on me.
"Hey, England. All I want, is my freedom! I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!" I yell. England looks sad for a moment, but then that moment passes; his face turns to one of rage, and he charges at me.
His bayonet catches the barrel of my rifle, tearing it from my hands. My boys take aim, waiting for me to give the signal. England's bayonet is an inch from my face, and he stares at me with hate-filled eyes.
Suddenly, England tosses his gun to the ground and drops to his knees.
"I won't allow it! You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?! There's no way I can shoot you. I can't," England spits. "Why? Dammit, why? It's not fair!" he shouts. Tears stream down his face, and I slowly place a hand on his shoulder.
"You know why," I say. "What happened? I remember when you were great," I murmur, tears cutting a path through the grime on my own face. "From now on, I have my independence." I bend down and pick up my rifle before turning and walking back to my boys.
"We did it, Jones! We won!" one of them yells, clapping me on the back.
For some reason, I feel utterly depressed. I remember everything England has done for me, and fresh tears slip down my face. I don't let on to the sobbing brit that I am also heart-broken, and I don't wipe the tears until I'm safely hidden by the trees.
I fall to my hands and knees, sobbing.
I may have won my independence, but it almost wasn't worth the price I paid; I lost my older brother, probably forever.