I didn't even hear the door slam behind me over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. Absentmindedly, I shrugged off my jacket, casting it onto the floor.
I pressed my back against the kitchen wall, breathing heavily. The tears I'd been holding back now spilled over, making me hiccup and wheeze. I was glad no one was there to see me.
It was December 7. The anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. A day that made my gut clench with guilt, and a day that strained relationships with one of my closest friends.
I hated having to see America-san at the World Meeting today. He didn't mention the meaning behind today's date, and he laughed and joked around with me as usual. Yet I saw the almost undetectable glimmer of accusation in his eyes, that said, 'You're a horrible person. No matter how many years it has been, I'll never forgive you'.
As soon as the meeting was over, I had ran straight home. Thankfully, the meeting was at my place today, so I didn't have to go very far.
To say I felt bad would be a horrible, horrible understatement. I felt terrible. Pearl Harbor was just one of the many times I've caused pain to others, and whenever I'm reminded of that, I have to leave. I have to go home; away from the accusing stare hidden under America-san's glasses, away from the stubborn anger that looked so misplaced on Korea-san's perpetually cheerful face.
My back slowly slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor. I buried my face into my knees, trying to muffle the sound of my sobbing.
"Baka." A voice above me chuckled.
My head whipped up. I knew that voice.
It was mine.
But at the same time, it wasn't.
Breath hitching in my throat, I ran my eyes over the cold gaze, the sadistic smile, and the pitch-black uniform that I so wanted to forget; to ban from my mind forever.
I was looking at my dark side, whom I've nicknamed "Kuro". It means "black", and no other word could more accurately describe the embodiment of everything about myself that I hated.
"You." I mouthed, too shocked to use my voice. "Kuro" hasn't shown himself to me for decades.
"Me." he (I?) mouthed back, a feral grin playing at his lips. He bent down to my level and touched his gloved hand to my face. He looked at his fingers in distaste, which were now glistening wet with my tears.
"You're seriously not over that, are you?" he asked quietly.
"Why would I be?" I snapped, finally finding my voice. "We're friends now, and I hurt him."
"'Friends'. What a funny word." His face was less than an inch away from mine, and -oh God- his lips were close enough to touch mine. "I don't like that word. 'Friends' don't exist."
"Neither do you!" I snapped again, stubbornly meeting his gaze. "You don't exist. Y-You're just a figment of my imagination. A projection of my guilt created by my subconscious..." I trailed off, realizing I sounded very much like a psychology textbook.
"Oh, Kiku, I'm very real." he said, stroking my damp face with the back of his now-bare hand, which he'd removed the glove off of. "I massacred all of those Chinese citizens, didn't I? I decided to become allies with the fascists and the Nazis." As if to prove just how solid he was, he slid his hand from my face down to my throat, fingertips grazing over my vein, which was throbbing so wildly it hurt.
I bit back a hiss of protest as "Kuro's" hand strayed from my neck to my shirt. He started to unfasten the buttons, ignoring my discomfort.
"Stop that!", I try to scowl at him, but it becomes more of a surprised grimace as he presses his lips against mine. I open my part my lips to yell at him, but he takes it as an invitation and thrusts his tongue inside my mouth, dancing and licking at my tongue and gums.
He's finished unbuttoning my shirt now, and his fingers start to tease my nipples, while his other hand has a strand of my hair twirled tightly around his pinky. He tugs hard on the lock of hair, and I feel his lips curl into a smirk when I let out an involuntary yelp.
Now the hand on my nipples travel down to my side, lightly touching the ugly, raised, burn scar there.
"This is from the atomic bomb that bastard dropped on you, am I right?" he asks.
"...yes." I confirm. As an afterthought, I add, "And his name's AMERICA-SAN, not 'bastard'!"
Kuro ignores this. "You know...it's strange that me, the dark part of you, is the one who decided to bomb America's little Hawaii brat, yet you're the one that carries the scar from his retaliation. You know what, Kiku?"
He takes his fingernails and cruelly scrapes into the scar, gouging it. Gasping, I grab fistfuls of Kuro's hair, an identical image to my own. The pain from the bombs dropped more than six decades before, which took forever to dull, comes back full force and makes me scream.
Kuro simply smiles, taking that as an affirmative for him to go on.
"You're just pathetic."
Hearing that from myself...just makes me snap. I grab my katana, which had been lying against the wall, collecting cobwebs from lack of use. Without a conscious thought, I grab the long-bladed sword and press the blade against his neck, nicking the skin the slightest bit but having all intention of pressing it in until his head is cut clean off, until that smirk of his is wiped off his face. I hate seeing that smirk on the face that looks so much like mine; that IS mine.
"Don't call me that." I growl. "Don't you dare call me that. You're the pathetic one here, you damned sadist. I know more about the world than you'll ever hope to. You may be the one better in military matters; but I'm the part of Japan with culture and diplomacy, the part that's matters more. You're the part of Japan that everyone despises, while I'm the part that people love."
Kuro smiles again, but I don't see any bloodlust or malice in it, which disarms me and makes my grip on the katana loosen just a little. "Maybe that's true."
Wordlessly, he has swipes his tongue against my lips again, and leaves. I let out a breath I didn't realize I've been holding, and close my eyes.
Only seeming like not half a second later, my eyes flutter open. I'm surprised to find that my eyelids are heavy with post-sleep drowsiness.
'Wait...was that...was that all a dream?' I wonder. There aren't any signs that the infamous dark side of my personality has ever even been here. I'm lying on the cat-patterned couch that Greece-san picked out for me, my shirt and jacket still on. I check my side; there isn't a single trace of pain in the place where it had hurt so intensely just moments before.
I sit up and let my eyes flicker around the room. Everything is exactly as I remembered that I'd left it when I'd left for the World Meeting that morning. Come to think of it, my face is dry, not wet with tears. Has the entire day been a dream, too?
I check my phone, and there's a message from America-san.
"Yo, Japan? ...yeah, you weren't at the meeting today. I guess you weren't feeling well? Cuz', y'know, I'm aware of what today is. Dude, if it's any help, I don't hate you. Sure, I'm upset about what you did, but you don't need to beat yourself up about it every year. Same deal with Iggy and my Fourth of July. Both of you just need to let go of the past because I'm worried about you. Anyways, I'll lend you my notes from the meeting-..."
I then hear Vietnam-niisan's voice: "...-No, Japan, I'll give you MY notes. This dumbass can't take notes for his life." Even over the phone, I can detect her fondness for America-san under her insulting tone.
America-san's voice: "Fine, whatever. Now...how the fuck do you end the message?"
"You don't know? Stupid, you just press the End button right here-..."
...apparently, it was.
I stare at the phone, trying to digest what America-san had said. I shake my head, smiling. "So naive, that America-san..."
Yawning sleepily, I went into the bathroom to wash my face.
The mirror on the bathroom wall; the only one in my house, has been shattered.
My katana lay among the broken shards of glass, near a single discarded glove.