America wasn't free.
When he had rebelled, he had done what was best for his people. He had genuinely believed it would be best for himself, too.
Over two-hundred years later, he was just realizing how wrong he was.
America had a fever, and he wondered why. His people, the people he loved and cared for and always tried to do his best for, were causing him so much absolute pain.
He scrolled through the news on his phone, dreading the horrible news that would inevitably come. And then he saw it.
A concert. 300 people. Celebrities. Shooters. All 300, dead.
300 people dead.
It was the second shooting that week. America could feel himself being ripped to shreds, feel his nation buckle under the pressure of debates. It was happening in real time. He was dying. Well, he knew he wasn't, but ut certainly felt like he was.
His head ached, and his legs buckled. He fell to the floor. He felt miserable. He wanted to be there. He wanted to be there for everyone, to save everybody, he wanted what was best for his people, he only wanted what was best, and it would be so easy if he could just save everybody.
He wanted to be their hero. He desperately craved, needed, to be their hero. Not only to end their pain, but to end his.
America couldn't do that. He couldn't save his citizens, the people who loved and needed him. He couldn't save them. He had failed them.
It was his fault. It had to be. The guilt hanged on his heart, pulling it down.
He got dressed, listening to the radio.
"News just came in— another victim of the Las Vegas shooting is dead. The total count right now is 326. The identities of the shooters are still being concealed, but more news will come out soon."
Three hundred twenty-six people dead. Three hundred twenty-six of his citizens, his people, dead. Gone forever.
He got into his car, driving to the airport. The radio was playing another repetitive pop song, but for once he wasn't humming along. He was driving to the airport under the guise of an Alfred F. Jones, an American citizen. A mortal citizen. One that was only too susceptible to bullets and knives and bombs.
"Sir? You don't look so well."
"I-I need to go. I need to get to my flight." He flashed the lady a bright smile, before showing her his passport. The lady stepped back, sighing.
"Very well. Be sure not to miss your flight."
America continued. He felt horrible. His stomach was in knots, and he was exhausted.
Despite his exhaustion, he didn't sleep at all on the flight. Instead he found himself wondering if there was something he could do to end all of this madness. Maybe there was a part of himself that he could destroy. Maybe, maybe, maybe...
But in the end, there was nothing the relatively young nation could do. He could just sit back and watch as the people he loved destroyed each other and themselves.
He walked to the meeting place, stumbling on the pavement. And he gripped the door handle tightly, putting on his absolute best smile.
"America? You're late." England said coldly.
"Jesus, Amerique, you look like crap!" France murmured. "What's gotten into you?"
"Nothing. Everything is fine, as awesome as always!" He smiled, laughing that annoying laugh that he knew would get the two of them to back off.
He had to act indifferent to the suffering of his nation. He had to. He had to act like it didn't affect him at all, like it was just another tragedy, because to many of his people and to all of the other nations, it was.
He was able to keep up this façade as usual. He always was.
At least he thought he would be able to. But when Germany barked his name and he stood up, he couldn't get the words out for several long moments. "There were two shootings in California this week." His voice cracked, and he sat standing for several moments, the smile completely gone.
All was silent. A couple nations glanced at him sympathetically, but none caught his gaze. It's my fault. It's all my fault. His mind tore him apart, but he stayed with a cold smile.
America wasn't free. He had nothing; nobody to confide in. Nobody that would offer more than short apologies— but what could they offer anyway? This is my fault, He chided himself.
America wasn't free. He was confined to his own little box of darkness, and in the pregnant silence he could feel the box grow just a little smaller. He could feel a breath stolen from him. He could feel his limbs cramping up painfully. He could feel his own sickness, his own horridness, wrapping around him, squeezing him tightly.
The silence ended as Germany called out the next person. "Canada!"
"N-Nothing to report." Canada said softly.
The guilt tugged at him again, teasingly, as if daring him to break down.
He kept smiling innocently. He would deal with this when he went back home.
America would never be free again. There was no doubt in his heart that this sadness would hold him still forever, paralyzing him and taunting another move out of him. The sadness, the guilt, the pure, unadulterated pain had enslaved him, and he would never be delivered.