Days of Glory, Days of Pain

I remember my past. My victories. My failures. I remember everything as clear as the everlasting glass that 'protected' me from the outside world. This glass was water; salty water that dragged me and separated me from my fellow Europeans. I lived quite the lonely life when I was young of age, besides having to deal with my fellow brothers who desired nothing but war. I played their little silly game, rising up to the point that the greatest Empire in our side was crumbling down, burning in poverty, while I raised, and raised, and took the name of an Empire. I was a pirate to some, a scumbag to others, but in the end, people either feared me or admired me. This is how I lived, and I did not mind it. Ruthless as I ever was, I sought to find what my heart was missing, that tiny little hole in my heart. What was it that I sought? I was unable to answer at the time. My King, oh great leader ordered me around as I kneeled, becoming the puppet of his cruel schemes. I had to go along with it until it was part of my very being. Once this was the case, I truly became the Black Sheep of Europe.

My days of youth were harsh. As long as my idiotic neighbors and brother breathed, I was unable to have a moment of peace, a moment of quiet. All I heard were the cannons of war, the breaking of skulls, the mourns, the cries, the cheers, the sorrowful moments, and every remanence of war. It was a loud life indeed. Though it may seem as if I hated it, I didn't necessarily despise it. It allowed me to forget about things that I desire to forget at once, such as my mistakes. I have fought civil wars, wars against my siblings, current allies, and many that I may regret fighting, or may still praise their defeat. I rose up and held too much power in my hands.

The year was 1607. I was wandering the vast new land that I had colonized until I came across a particular person. He was newly born, clothed in white. His eyes reflected the Atlantic ocean itself, being a shade of blue. He was gorgeous, just like the rich land that I stepped on. The minute I saw him I knew that I wanted to make him mine. He sat in the middle of a high grass field, staring at me with a speck of curiosity, intrigued. I felt my heart beat once again, filling the spot I sought to fill. This was it. He was the answer. He simply smiled at me, waiting for a response.

"Who are you?" He spoke quietly, relaxing his shoulders. I smiled at him back, brushed my vest, and spoke,

"My name is England. I have come to improve this land. What is your name?"

The little boy thought for a second, poking his hair with one hand, and widening his cheeks, filling them with air.

"I do not know."

The little boy seemed confused. He had no name, no story, no end. All he knew was that he was born because of someone. Someone decided to make him. I was part of that someone. We stared at each other for what seemed to be a minute or two, until I spoke again.

"Can I name you then?"

He nodded hopelessly but eagerly. I scratch my head. What was a fine name for him?

Perhaps British America, or the British West Indies? He was to be mine, of course. A proper name had to have the word British in it. I concluded on his name, cutting it for the purposes of not tongue twisting his mouth.

"America," I said. "I will call you America."

The little boy cheered, hugging me. I could feel my cheeks slightly burn. This was something I did not experience much.

"Well now America," I stopped, still hugging the little boy. "Will you be my brother?"

The boy nodded, holding onto me tighter. It was a fine evening.

When new land is discovered, new conflicts form. Ambitious countries seek new opportunities, resources, and fertile soil just how they sought when America was discovered. I was among the lucky to acquire a prominent amount of land, forming what was to become the Thirteen Colonies. I wasn't the only lucky country. Farther west, countries such as Spain claimed vasts amounts of land, far surpassing what I had. My idiotic rival, also known as France formed Louisiana which consisted of very little establishments and an exaggerating amount of land for resources, as they enjoyed the fur trade. Spain had his large share of land, taking over most of the entire continent throughout the years.

I would visit little America every day, helping him, and guiding him in the right path, a path of glory. He was a fast learner, growing in experience and size. He would seek me and treat me as the older brother I tried to be. These were years of joyfulness and no pain -besides the occasional fighting in Europe.- He was my safe haven, my reason to smile, my way to escape from the bloody Europe that I lived in and see the shining everlasting sun of the Western part of the world. These were good days indeed.

It was a summer afternoon I believe. I went to visit America as usual, gift in hand. I knocked on his door, waiting for the tiny little boy who I admired struggle to reach the lock and hug me. I whistled a happy tune as I heard someone walking. The lock was unlocked quite faster than I expected. The door opened, and a child stepped outside. He was America, but older. He had grown almost four inches. To my surprise, he still had his chubby cheeks which I pinched when he was acting naughty.

"A-America?" I said in an almost laughable matter. The boy still reacted the same -luckily- and welcomed me inside.

"How is everything going?" I sat down. "I do apologize for visiting you less. France is being rowdy as usual."

The boy crossed his legs, imitating me while sipping his tea.

"My people are very kind. They sure love farming," The little boy laughed amiably. "It's all thanks to you."

"Nonsense," I said as fast as if it were a reflex. "This is your work."

I placed the teacup which I held on my hand next to me and poked him in the heart. He giggled.

"You have done this. I have simply guided you- Helped you out with learning the basics."

"I still need to thank you, Mr. England, sir."

I simply nodded. There was no need to continue this conversation. I sipped my tea once or twice. I had given America a little simply gift which he seemed to be very attached to. They were purple flowers that did not grow in my land. I had to go North to search for them. Regardless of the journey, he would always thank me a billion times and even cry. I questioned this at first but later learned to go along with it.

As fast as a bee collects pollen from a flower, the day was over. I headed home, a little tired than usual. I made my way to my favorite pub, asked the waiter for a drink, and drank my heart out, waiting for the night to leave, so I could have met America again.

Days feel like seconds. Months feel like days. Time is nothing to us countries. Little America grew fast. Too fast. I could not enjoy his youth to the fullest. I had to deal with battles against France and vice versa, not visiting little America as often as I desired. The more I saw him, the more he grew. He was no longer a child, no longer asking for my advice as often. He was grown up, far passing my height. He started to think in ways that I did not teach him. He was different… and at times those differences weren't so great.

I had given him a gift for a gentleman like himself. It was a decent attire, nothing special. He was sure to accept. I went to visit him, as I loved to. He wore such cheap clothing I just had to get him something of my standards. He declined, claiming that it seemed costly and he probably wouldn't wear it much. I was somewhat heartbroken. I did not raise him to dress like his colony. He was my brother from all the people. I wanted him to look like me... Or act like it. He had changed. I started to worry. I brushed it off to not cause any suspicion, faking a smile.

"Alright," I said, still holding his gift. "Do keep it at least."

He agreed to keep it, yet once again commented that he was not going to wear it much. This was starting to make me worried… perhaps a little bit paranoid.

Years passed, and everything started to change.

It was now 1754. Bloody France was being the bastard he was, engulfing himself in yet another war against me (for America was mine). I heard the gunfires once again, but this time little America was part of it all. France decided to side with the natives, attacking poor America. To add on, I was involved in the Seven Years War which happened not much later after France's war started. It was another bloody period of casualties and economic devastations. I wanted this ridiculousness to end, in which both conflicts ended in 1763. I thanked God for the short wars.

I was relieved. This was over. I could help America… or so I thought. Fighting a war comes with a price. We were given a troublesome reward. New land was given to the colonies. It may have seemed like a great thing for the Americans, but it was no good. I already struggled to keep in touch with little America, my debts were increasing, and I did not desire to get him involved in yet another conflict. The natives lived there, passed the Appalachian mountains. Colonists were bound to meet the natives whom they fought not long ago, in which another war could have aroused. I didn't want to see America in trouble again. It was too much for me. Also, they would have also met the stinky french at some point, jeopardizing many things.

"America. Listen to me–"

"No. You listen to me. We earned this land. We should be allowed to colonize it! There are so many opportunities out there–"

"Don't talk like that. This is for your own good. I'm doing this for you."

I fiddled with my fingers, walking behind America.

"Our blood was shed because of this war, England. Our blood."

"And my blood has been shed in plenty of wars. You need to understand–"

"Understand what? That you still treat me like a child?" America exhaled loudly, crossing his arms. "My people are not happy because of this Proclamation of yours. Not happy at all."

We stared at each other. I crouched back a little, now focusing on the floor.

"This is for you…" I mumbled.

"Go away."

I stopped what I was doing, standing straighter.

"W-what did you say?"

I felt my chest become heavier and America walked closer to me.

"I said. GO AWAY."

Crash.

That was the sound that my heart made when I heard those two words. Go. Away. I nodded softly, making my leave.

He didn't even wave goodbye, slamming the door in front of me.

What had I done?

My memories of that afternoon then became fuzzy. I recall sitting in a pub, mug in hand. I remember talking to the waiter, wailing about America and my life. I remember telling him how I was the one to chose the fate of America; how I was his older brother, the nation that helped him, guided him, treated him like a human…

"BLOODY AMERICA HAS NO RIGHT TO TALK TO ME LIKE THAT," I sniffed, chugging whatever alcohol I drank one or two times. "No right at all…"

I was escorted home by who knows who after I was knocked out cold. It all seemed like a nightmare…

I went to visit America again a little after. Yes, he still did not talk to me the way he did before, but he seemed calmer, soothing my soul. We were… in a decent relationship.

He would welcome me, serve me tea as usual, and talk about what is going on in my colony. I was determined to fix our relationship.

I thought it was a good decision. I was keeping my men in America after all. 10,000 of them. To continue enforcing my Royal Proclamation, I had to tax the Americans. It was to keep their motherland in a healthy state, to support my economy. It was simply just a tax on their imports and what not. They could have dealt with it. Their economy was growing and developing. Mine was overrunning with debts and the payment of these soldiers. I had enforced the Sugar Act in 1764, a later continuation of my Sugar and Molasses Act from 1733 which was about to expire.

I needed that money. He simply did not understand that. Americans did not treat my act lightly. Causing unnecessary drama, they demanded me to levy it. To add on, one year later, I enforced the Stamp Act, something not that much of a big deal. Of course these Americans can't just relax for once.

"I need the money America."

"Taxation without representation you mean?"

"You have enough representation. Please calm down."

This was much worse. Too much. Just…. too much.

America was rowdy. He started acting much more differently. He treated me… as if he was my equal. One of my servants had whispered something to my ear one day, shocking me. My eyes were wide open and I had almost dropped my tea. The word rebellion rang inside my head. What was he up to now?

Tar and feathers. Tar and bloody feathers. How disgraceful. How… peasant-like. They were stripped from their clothes, men who supported me and were covered in tar and feathers. They were humiliated. I immediately demanded America to stop this foolishness at once. He simply brushed me up, sarcastically saying "Yes, oh leader of mine" and kicking me out of his home. I would say he would have hit puberty if he were a human. Our days of peace were over.

If a man can be forgiven for their sins, then can a country also be forgiven?

I am not Catholic but this came into my mind.

December 16, 1773. I was doing my usual routine, relaxing at home, when I felt a peculiar ache in my heart. It mildly hurt at first so I ignored it. My breathing increased unnaturally and the ache worsened every three to ten seconds. Something was going on in my country or with my economy. Was it a battle? Was it a market crash?

I rushed to a window to check my surroundings. The city was quite lively, but there was nothing unusual. I asked my servants and my King if anything had happened, in which they replied with a "no," and "get back to work."

There was something wrong.

It didn't take long for the news to reach me.

The room was dark, only being lit by a few candles. I ordered the pub owner to kick every living soul out. Everyone one (besides the waiter). I sat down, head on the table.

"I am the British Empire. No one can defy me…."

"Yes sir," the waiter spoke, rubbing a mug with a cloth. I placed both of my arms on the table, hanging them on the verge of it.

"America loves me… right?"

"Yes, sir."

"This is just a dream… a nightmare… right?"

"Anything you say, sir."

"He couldn't have dumped that tea to the harbor… right?"

"No, sir."

"But he did," I paused, sitting up straight. "He has been rebelling against me. All these years. I gave him everything he wanted. I act for myself ONCE and he goes around, rebelling. My sobbing stopped, and I lowered my eyebrows. "Do you know how many bloody tons were dumped into his harbor?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know the years… the years that the tea could have lasted?!" my tone was rougher, but the waiter remained the same.

"No."

"That bastard. That brother of mine. That traitor. That country!"

I stood up from my seat, fisting.

"Three hundred and forty chests of tea. 46 tons. Money was thrown away. Money. Tea. Years of economic opportunities," I was now scowling, stepping away from my seat. I kicked the seat once, ordering the waiter to leave me alone. He had plucked every single straw of my being. I kicked the chair once again, pushing it away from me full force.

"I gave him all. All. My tea was destroyed. Our work… our tea. My tea. Our tea…"

I grasped my golden hair tightly as my inner river leaked from my eyes. I shoved a table as far as I could, crashing against a wall. One by one. I threw any table I saw, forgetting that this was a public area.

"ALL THAT TEA. WHAT IS HE THINKING?"

The winter afternoon was cold, and the wind blew things away, taking my heart away with it.

My men marched in order as they were taught; They were dressed in red, with their hats well fixed. They tumbled down the city within the Thirteen Colonies one by one. They lost their lives, many of them did, as my general commanded them, and I stayed close in hand. It was a bitter September day, 8 years into America's so-called war for freedom. I toughened myself to forget about the past and memories that remained within me. We were at war, even though it did hurt. The sky cried this day, as droplet after droplet of water met the ground and us, making our clothes wet.

We were in a field, and the battle had commenced. I wanted this to stop. I wanted him to return to me once more. Men shot each other like savages, each desiring to keep their lives and see a new tomorrow. I was shot once or twice, feeling the bullets mark me.

America in the other hand stayed low at first, blending in with his men, following his General, Washington's trail, until much later, when he started shooting my soldiers.

"AMERICA!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "STOP THIS!"

He stared at me but spoke no words. His name flooded my mind as I continued shooting, one by one. I broke formation, rushing to him. His soldiers shot me, bullet by bullet until I was bathing on my own blood. I stopped for a breath. I could not feel an arm and noticed how much blood it dripped.

"Is this guy immortal?" I heard a few soldiers mumble. I tasted iron on my tongue and nose.

"America. Listen to me."

The men kept shooting. I was losing blood at a faster rate than I anticipated.

"This is too cruel," I heard a familiar voice say, blocking his soldiers. There he was, dressed in blue. America seemed intact while I struggle to keep my consciousness. I was astonished on how I had not had a limb blown away.

"Washington. Tell them to stop shooting."

General Washington did as he said, lowering his gun. On the other side, the British did the same. I lowered my head, biting my lower lip.

"All I want is freedom. Is that too much to ask?"

I bit my lip harder, gripping to my gun harder. I felt a strange feeling rush through my veins, as in an instant I charged at America as best as I could, and attempted to hit him with my bayonet's metal blade, in which he blocked it with his gun, marking it. His gun flew away from him on impact, and I attempted to recover my breath.

"I will never allow it."

My gun barely touched his forehead, cutting him slightly. Washington ordered his men to prepare to shoot. I stood still, eyeing America.

"Please America."

He kept staring at me. He was thinking of something, most likely how to get my gun away from him. I exhaled and lowered my gun.

"I would never shoot you silly," I said weakly, dropping my gun. "Never."

I fell down on my knees, covering my forehead with my working arm, tearing up more than I had ever done before. I couldn't stop the tears, no matter what I thought.

I felt America's eyes pierce my back, not moving from where he was.

"I remember when you were great."

I kept crying, up to the point that my eyes hurt. My heart pulsed at a rate that made my body feel unstable. The rain poured harder, blending with my tears.

America had won this war.

A lonely man sat at a pub.

That lonely man was perhaps myself.

My King was destroyed as so was I. We ended the war with America, resulting in numerous heartbreaks. I did not leave my house for months, as the French cheered my loss, along with the Americans. I was once so great, experiencing days of glory, which ultimately met days of pain.