Cool, another nuclear war fanfiction
Wow so original I mean wow
He couldn't breathe.
That was the first thought to flit into his mind.
He felt it, too. He felt every part of his body react to the pain differently.
Everything hurts.
He felt his arm twist oddly behind him, separating his back from the cold floor.
He felt his legs kick madly at his attacker- he's not there where did he go where- and felt the old blood on his feet cool with the air and the new blood drip down his leg, searing hot compared to the frigid room.
Where is he where where where
He felt his head throb painfully and tried to bring a hand up to cradle it- where are my glasses where is he- but it hurt more to move, and he felt his brain dance the jitterbug inside his skull and the music he heard was so loud- what music where where where
But his lungs, he remembered. His lungs. He felt his lungs claw with desperate hands, looking for sweet oxygen to sate their hunger, but it felt like they were full of water- that isn't right- and he wondered weakly if he could drown on land.
His body stilled.
He lay there for a moment- a minute- a year.
He basked in the numbness and thanked every god he knew for this moment of peace.
He tried to move his right foot.
Blue blood coursing through his veins sped up and he screamed and the blood pounded in him, commanding him to stop trying to move- it hurts it hurts WHERE- and it was hot in his face but his sweat was cold and the room was cold-
How did this happen?
He stopped.
He didn't remember.
Why am I here?
He remembered everything else, the wars, the poverty, the expansion, the oil- god how he hated oil- everything, up until then.
Grimacing, America slowly brought the hand not steeling his body from the cold ground- should my arm bend that way- to feel the scars across his body, and vaguely mused to where his shirt went.
He felt the one from the Revolution, a long line starting at the center of his collar bone and dragging down to below his breast, the skin faded and dull but still hurt occasionally.
He felt the one from his Civil War, a dark, deep, angry area of marred flesh across his waist- North and South so funny hahaha- which still itches every few years. It itches a little now.
He felt the one that had continued to be reopened for so many years during his expansion, the one that he had felt one day when he saw an English man beat one of the natives. England had said nothing of it and they had continued on, and he never asked when America's chest started to hurt.
Finally, his searching hands sought the new ones. The scar next to his right eye, from the bombing on New York- bright, sparkling, glistening New York, just like your eyes, America, he had said- to the one on his right forearm- Hollywood, where's the magic now? he had sneered- to the countless other scattered on his body- Boston, Seattle, New Orleans, why why why- but it was never enough for him.
He had never bombed his capital. America had figured he'd been saving it for last, and still waited with bated breath for his heart to stop.
It felt like eternity before America found his voice again.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he spit from between his teeth, the bloody bones cracking together painfully when his head throbbed and begged him to stop- stop talking, stop thinking, stop breathing- He tried to turn his head to his captor, to ask him how he could live with himself.
He never heard the answer.
Oh wow who is it
No idea
probably North Korea