Well I'm back with a new story. I'm terribly sorry if it seems rush; I've been out of funk lately. Hopefully, you'll all still enjoy it!
As always, do you honestly think I own these characters?
[10-9-2013] I've updated the chapters to have less spelling/grammar mistakes.
While England and France argued like they normally did during meetings, America sat quietly in his seat, resting his chin on his folded arms with his eyes closed. He'd figured no one was watching, but China, a person who always stood back, assessed their North American friend. It was abnormal to not see America making some sort of noise or idiotic statements; in fact, it made China uncomfortable.
"America, are you feeling well? Do you need some of my delicious cooking?" China questioned.
It was rare for him to be nice to America, but there were times when he felt compassionate towards the young nation. It probably had something to do with the fact that America was centuries younger than him, making him a baby in China's eyes.
America opened his eyes and looked at the Asian nation of the Allies. His eyes seemed far away, like he wasn't there at all. Under his eyes were bags that attested to how sleep deprived the American was; how tired was hard for China to tell. After seeming to figure out what the older nation had said to him, he gave a short shake of the head.
"Nah," he said in a small voice, the complete opposite of his loud, obnoxious one. He stood up. "I think I'm going to go. See ya guys."
America left the meeting room without another word and without anyone stopping him. China stared at the door in worry before looking around the room. Russia seemed to be focused on the door as well, but his face still held the innocent look that disturbed China. Deciding he was no help, he looked to the Western nations. France and England had stopped their fighting and were looking at the door that America had exited from. England looked the most worried, something that didn't surprise China as of late.
America had suffered a personality change out of the blue one day, causing everyone to be thrown off tilt. He had said something about a mansion, but when his allies responded back with blank stares, he dropped the subject. Since then, he had begun to self-destruct on himself. He rarely ate, didn't laugh, and wouldn't propose stupid ideas to win the war. He wasn't himself anymore, and it had caused England to grow worried. The bushy-browed nation hadn't been as hard on America as he used to be. He used less insults when regarding to the boy and had less of a haughty attitude to him. It was clear that the island nation was doing his best to get the boy back to normal, but nothing worked. None dared to approach the American because they didn't know how to bring the topic up.
They weren't even sure they'd get a real answer.
America laid on his hotel bed once he made it back, releasing a sigh as he forced his eyes closed. He knew he shouldn't have left the meeting like he had, but he didn't want to stay in the meeting any more. He couldn't take sitting there with the others around him.
None of them remembered the mansion, and while he was grateful for that, it also troubled him. He couldn't have dreamt it up, but his scar on the shoulder from that creature had been the only proof to remind him that it had been real. He had contemplated showing the others to get a reaction from them, but he decided against it. He didn't want to let his friends relive the hell they had suffered; it didn't mean that it was easy for him to hold such memories in his head. Besides, he had no one to talk to.
Russia was out of the question. The large man had begun keeping to himself more than usual, but America never really cared for him. He never trusted the other nation to begin with.
China was also out of the question. America and him just didn't get along enough for the young nation to trust the other man with the details of what plagued him every night.
France...he was terrified France would turn his sufferings into some sort of flirtation, so he was ruled out. Even if he was like a second father, America just didn't think the other nation would be able to help him with the serious situation.
Last of all was England…. He and England still weren't on good footing with each other, so he didn't dare think about asking his old caretaker for help (besides, the limey would probably just laugh at him for crawling back).
Curling in a ball, terribly alone, forcing his eyes open as an image appeared. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his friends, bloodied and dead because he was too useless to do a thing. He was no hero; he was foolish to even think he had been. The memories had sickened him, leaving his stomach queasy to any sort of food. Since he had nightmares, he never slept for long. If he did manage to get some sleep in, he'd always wake back up screaming, terrified of the visions he'd see in his mind. He knew it was hindering his performance, and perhaps causing his allies to feel uncomfortable around him, but he was too tired to care.
He began to cry as his body shuddered. Even though he had exited the mansion three months ago, the cries of the monster and his dying friends stuck within him, making him relive it on a daily basis. With no one around to see his moment of weakness, he released his tears, wanting to unleash some sort of emotion or else he'd go insane. He fell asleep that way, curled up at the end of his bed, clinging to the bed sheets with tears running down his cheeks. It wasn't a peaceful sleep, but it was sleep none of the less; something that America desperately needed, along with a loving hand to tell him that he was okay.