This had become a ritual of sorts for him. The forlorn suit laid scattered across his apartment. His pants were flung over the tv, button up on the counter top. There was a tie looped around a lamp shade and coat on the floor. Shined leather gleamed from beneath the couch where his shoes had been abandoned. America stood, baggy attire, bare feet and all, just outside his window on the fire escape. The air was cool, dense, filled with smog and smoke. His mouth tasted like copper and industry, like sulfur and steel. He wasn't sure if he liked it.
There wasn't time to think. Thinking wasn't part of the ceremony. Musings were best left to other times, other places. This was now; this was what it all became.
America went on auto pilot as he swung on the ladder at the end of the escape. He quickly scaled the rusting steps, uncaring as to their stability. The uneven metal threatened to bite through the flesh of his feet but his mind neither registered the danger nor cared. This was now; this was what he did. He wanted the fear, needed it, to deal with all the contradictions building in his chest.
This.
This would give him the fear.
He reached the roof of his apartment building, toes dangling just over the ledge as he leaned over and looked to the alley way below. An inky darkness perched between the buildings, swaying with the coming and goings of headlights and fluttering moonlight. To him, it looked like a beast ready to pounce, ready to devour whatever lay ahead and feel no remorse. The image of an an all engulfing darkness took over his mind and adrenaline surged. His toes curled on the edge, loose concrete nipping at the hardened flesh.
The air burned his lungs as he inhaled, veins on fire. The muscles in his body seized for a moment as his arms swung back and legs bent at the knee. His face was vacant of everything, shadows dancing across the dark pools of his eyes as he jumped forward. A gust roared past him, only a second, but enough to knock him back as his heels barely cleared the ledge of the new building. A hammering heart beat madly in his chest.
America didn't need time to think. This was a practiced art, a step-by-step process he had long ago perfected and become comfortable with. It was an instinct now, something he needed to do after finishing all his official business. If the process failed to be completed every night, sleep would not come, his stomach would churn, and the things never felt right. In the loneliness of night, America found a way to escape the role of follower as he led his own path and ignored the remnants of screaming fits and panic from the day's meetings, phone calls, paperwork, world.
This was his world, a special place of his own design, the key to never coping and never caring. This arose from an intense need, a burning yearning, to find a point. The thought 'What's the point?' had been burning into his skull constantly and leaving him restless and anxious. So, he did what anyone would do: created a world all his own. Where his boss couldn't order him around, aids couldn't lay mountains of paperwork on his desk, and the other nations couldn't openly, or otherwise, express their bitterness to him.
Now wasn't the time for thinking. Now was a time for cleansing.
He took one step, wind whipping around him, then another and another. With each stride, legs and arms moving ever increasingly swifter, he neared the opposite edge of the building. The gap between these two was larger, he knew. A running start was the best bet to get him across. And run America did. His arms pumped wildly as his feet pressed against the gravel forcefully. A few times, a loss of momentum threatened his leap of faith as his feet lost purchase on the unsteady ground below. It only increased his thrill, cleared his mind, and made the experience all that more intoxicating as he pressed from the ledge and sailed.
The clouds parted overhead and showed the mask of the moon glaring out, spilling light across the building tops. He was alone in this section of town. Long ago everyone had laid down to rest, letting their minds recharge as they prepared for another day of frenzied American life: get it done, get it done, get it done faster.
His lips curled upward, exposing teeth and gums as he grinned widely. There was a shine in his eyes as his hair was pushed away from his face and casual clothing billowed behind him. The navy of his sweatshirt was but a blur, the gray of his sweatpants blending seamlessly with the tall, unremarkable buildings serving as a back drop for his late night antics. The gold of his skin glittered somberly, coating him in an unearthly ethereal glow.
An eagle taking wing.
A prisoner escaping capture.
The slave being consumed by devotion over and over again, never questioning the transparent pull of the duties he abided by.
America had become a slave to this. This insanity, this outlet. Over and over and over and painfully, agonizingly over again. In the daylight, strings protruded from his limbs and dictated his every move as he slipped into the role of the United States of America. A puppet mastered only by his own obligations from centuries of editing and revision. In the twilight of night, the strings once guiding him snapped and a freedom he hadn't known came back. All encompassing, all consuming. He was a slave to that freedom even as it consumed him and neared obsession.
Over and over.
A slave.
The things he tried to stray away from ideologically: repetition and servitude.
The things he now lived for.
His feet made a sick slapping noise as they landed onto the smoother surface of the next roof top. The pain was comforting but a mute sensation as his heart skittered and jostled in his chest while his lungs tirelessly worked to bring in more oxygen, to breath. His brain buzzed, hazy, eyes unfocused as he began running once more, leaping again with a great swing of his body as it arched and bowed.
He was twenty five stories up. One misstep and he would be out of commission for months upon months. Yet, he couldn't stop. Another sprint, another jump, another building as his feet landed and knees threatened to buckle. Over and over he gave himself over to this wild desire, need. A slave to it and nothing else.
There was contentment in this.
Whatever this really was.
A/N: Bet some of you may be wondering, 'Hm, why hasn't this bloke updated the other things he has going?' Answer, I'm a right real lazy lout. So, just putting that out there. Anyway, this will be a multi-chapter work, there may be random pairings strewn about, it will revolve primarily around America, and the themes should be consistently quite dark. I'm talking drug use, sex, self harm maybe, violence, twisted thinking, all that good, fun stuff. I'll try to keep everyone in character as well as I can, despite the story content. If that hasn't deterred you, I may as well say how I'm writing this.
I put my iTunes on shuffle. There you go. Whatever song comes up, that's what I base the chapter off. It's a challenge of sorts to myself as a reader but worry not! I have a multitude of different types of music, so there should be a great variety. That's why I can't say for sure if there will be any pairings, I don't know how the story is going to go because I don't know what song will come up. Anyway, yea, you probably don't care. This one is Vitamin R (Leading Us Along) by Chevelle. The title is a line from Very Busy People by The Limousines; the song has nothing to do with the over all story. Anywayanyway, short chapter and this author's note is getting long. Read, review, what have you.