America was sick. He found it hard to get out of bed these days. A constant pain throbbed through his body. He felt like retching. He was paranoid and over reacting to everything. He was being hounded by other nations for the things he couldn't help. America was choking on blood forced to his throat by the decisions of his people, both those in power and ordinary citizens who didn't want those people in power. America was losing his mind as the days wore on and problems poured in. America was forced to tears every time a soldier was brought home from where they never should have been, encased in wood and draped with his stripes. His stars. America was weak, his people giving up on him, on their country and all it stood for. His economy was crashing, his people in a state of unrest and he himself in shambles. America was sick.
America was tearing itself apart. There were riots everywhere in the streets, and not enough man power to quell them. Officials were considering shooting at the crowd to drive them back as they encroached further and further on the white house. America was appalled. He resisted, he refused. They did it anyway, and the riots were quieted, if only for awhile. The people rebelled, and he couldn't count how many attempts were made on an officials life. How many times a citizen had been shot down by another. How many had been murdered in his name. Not only here and now, but anywhere. Everywhere. Every death pushed America just a little bit closer to the edge. It only dragged on, the hopeless, senseless nothing his country was falling into. That he was falling into. America was tearing itself apart.
They tried to help. His friends. His allies. England and France and Canada and Japan and- He didn't need help. He wouldn't take help. It was his country, he would fix it himself. He would fix everything. Alone. He was America. A superpower. He didn't anyone's help. He pushed them away. He pushed himself away. He wouldn't let them help. He wouldn't drag them into this. He wouldn't. He wouldn't. He did. He dragged them into this. He dragged them down. Ruined them. Their countries. Their people. Everything he touched seemed to break. To disintegrate into useless, mindless chaos. He was a sickness a disease, dragging the world down with him. He couldn't go on. Not like this, not for much longer. They worried, his friends. His allies. They tried to help.
He stumbled. Many years ago, he stumbled. The depression. The Great Depression. It had hit him hard. Hit his people hard. Black Tuesday. Stock market crash. Everything went south. Everything went bad. So many hungry, famished, starving. Dying. It lasted for years. He couldn't fix it. He had started it and he couldn't fix it. He infected the world. So many suffered. Because of him. No matter how hard he worked, he couldn't fix it. It only dragged on and on. Years and years. And then another war. A war that his government didn't want any part of. A war he was dragged into. A war he regretted. He had killed so many. Lost so many. Pearl Harbor. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. So many dead. Too many. Why? Because he fucked up. He always fucked up. He stumbled.
He waited. He played the game. That game he was never sure he would win. He played the communists game. He played. He worried . He fear. He became paranoid. He jumped at anything, everything. Anyone. He let himself be dragged into the chaos. The conspiracy. The waiting drove him to edge of madness. He turned. He turned on his own citizens. He let his government tell him what he knew couldn't being true. He let them convince him. Being gay made you a communist. He was against communism. He hated communism. He fought dirty. He blacklisted. He ruined more lives. He ruined himself. He was driven to a dark place. A place he swore he would never let himself be dragged to. He played his game. It drove him mad. He didn't know what would come next. He waited.
He was never a hero. He pretended. He wanted. He said he was, but what kind of a hero couldn't save his own people. He was angry. His people were angry. They decided without thinking. They decided to do nothing. The Cold War again. Another waiting game. But his opponents weren't playing. They had struck their blow. Done their job. It didn't matter to them if he retaliated. So he did nothing. Nothing for years. Until it was too late. Then they moved. His troops. His soldiers. His people. They were sent away. Sent to do a job that should have been done forever ago. They left. They died. He felt it. Every bullet ripped through his body just as it did their own. The sorrow of a loved who was presented with that triangle that nobody wanted flooded his every nerve ending. Their sobs wracked through his body and he cried every tear with them. He walked among those white tombstones every year and cried tears of his own as he remembered. Every man. Every woman. Every soldier. Those that he had failed to save. He was no hero.
He fell. He caved. He lost. America lost. Everything piled so high. He couldn't see over the problems anymore. Couldn't see the sky. Couldn't see the hope. He let himself fall and the world moved on without him. Reality hit him in the face. All those things he didn't wanna face. The signs he didn't wanna see; He was never a hero. He couldn't do it all. He would never be able to do it all, but he did all he could. He got involved in his people's everyday life. He brought food to those who needed it. He built an odd house or two for someone who didn't have one. He went out of his way to make some one's day a little brighter. He couldn't do it all, but he did all he could. He waited. He waited so long and left so many people in desperation. Fear and worry. He let Russia drive him to the brink, but he pulled himself back. America drove away the madness that had slowly began to creep up on him. He beat it. He waited, but he saved himself. He stumbled. He tripped up. Fucked up. He let his people down. He murdered. So many. He saved so many more. He helped to defeat the Nazi regime. The bad guys. The villains. He liberated France. He saved so many. He clawed his way back out of that depression. He stumbled, but he kept on walking. They tried to help. He refused them. He told them to leave, get lost. That he could handle this on his own. He scorned his friends. His might-as-well-be family. He helped them. He drove them away. Kept them from dragging themselves down by carrying his dead weight. He spared them, they already hurt so much. They tried to help, but they needed help too. America was tearing itself apart. The riots. The conspiracy theories. The chaos und contempt. The hatred. There were people shooting their fellow citizens for no reason. There were people banding together to help their family, their fellow Americans. People giving up their homes to those who had none. People donating, giving, help, aiding. People showing love. America was tearing itself apart, but America was piecing itself back together too. America was sick. Depressed. Hurting. America was losing the battle with his economy. The battle to stay srong and on his feet. America was fighting. Getting better. The hurt was fading, and the economic decline slowed. America started winning. America was sick, but America was healing.
America fell.
But America would pick itself back up.
Alfred would pick himself up off the ground