Chapter 6
America was now in his house. The big, old wooden house held many memories for him.
Like his colonial days with England.
And his friendship with Lithuania.
The young looking man shook his head. Memories would do no good for him now. Not that they have ever been.
12:00 P.M.
If he was going to die, he might as well be comfortable. So he walks to the very back of his house. The one room that nobody ever saw, or even knew existed.
It was a large, circular room. The walls were a solid, pure, but not blinding white. Stationed around the room in regular intervals are urns, each with a different design. Designs that had meant so much to the spirits whose' remains rested in the urns.
There were fifty of them.
Beautiful painted portraits were above each of the urns. Bronze plates are beneath the portraits. Each holds a name, a date, and a…
State.
Knowing that this would be the last time to mourn them he walked to the end of the line. Looking at each portrait he individually mutters words of love, and joy, and hurt, and sorrow, and farewell, and apology.
Near the end of the line, in front of the portrait of a tan skinned and dark haired and eyed color man who's plaque reads 'Peter Adams. June 1st, 1796. Tennessee.' he paced backwards a few steps to face the entire room.
2:00 P.M.
America wondered aloud in the silent room.
"Is there an afterlife for nations? Do you know?"
His words echoed around the circular room.
"If there is, I bet I'll go to Hell."
Only the painted eyes watched him and painted ears listened.
"Wouldn't all nations go to Hell?"
The smiles on the portraits seemed to answer him.
"Did you?"
No reply.
"Do you even exist anymore?"
Because he didn't want to be lonely anymore.
"Or did I take that from you all as well?"
This was what scared him the most.
"I'm so sorry."
America had met each of his states before they truly became states. And all thirteen of the original colonies. And not just as America the country, but as Alfred F. Jones. The person.
"To all of you."
And he had loved them all so very much. They were his friends, his children, the people he fought for. His beloved states. But he made a mistake, one that would destroy their lives.
"That you had to die."
He called himself the United States of America. United, as in one whole. A single country. So that meant a single body. And a single person. So once they became a state. They died.
"So I could live."
And each time they died, he, Alfred F. Jones, died a little more on the inside. Because if they became part of him, then they may never see the afterlife. They'll fade out of existence forever or, worse, be trapped in a perpetual state of non-being.
"I love you all, so, so much."
Because felt so guilty and grief-struck.
He turns back to the urn and portrait of Peter Adams and whispers more heartfelt, tender words before turning to the next portrait.
"Elizabeth Norris. June 25th, 1788. Virginia."
The lady in the portrait was in her late twenties. She had golden hair which was braided down her back and a fair complexion. Beautiful painted green eyes gazed at America. They were just like her eyes while she was alive but, well, painted. They were green, not like the emerald and forest green that England had, but like the green of the soft grass that was outside of his house. America sighed and touched the painting fondly. Unlike many of countries' provinces, regions, etcetera, or even many of his own states, Virginia played a parental figure in his life. To specify, the maternal figure.
England was hardly ever around during America's childhood. It was a near miracle that they had such a good relationship. He would visit for such short amounts of time and leave for even longer times. Sometimes years would pass before he visited again. America never blamed him, he was the British Empire after all, he had many other colonies and territories, even if America did get the feeling that he was favored.
Still, America was lonely in all those times waiting for England to come back. Then he found the personifications of the colonies.
After the awkwardness of having the personification of the colonies meet the personifications of the individual colonies wore off he made good friends with them. For some strange reason they were all looked older then he did. So he looked up to them as guardians of a sort and they looked at him as a favored nephew or brother. While Elizabeth, or Lizzy as he called her, the personification of Virginia looked to him as her child; James, New York, was like an older brother. They shared last names. And Sarah, the pretty representative of Rhode Island, was like a sister to him. He and James always teased her about her short stature. And there was Phoebe from Pennsylvania, and then Georgia from, well Georgia, and Henry from Maryland. Henry always hated the name of his colony. And everyone else…
He loved them so much…
The Revolutionary War was a real bonder for all of them. They supported him as he fought against his own often absent caretaker and guardian, even though it hurt him. And it hurt him so much, especially with a third of his citizens, and by default himself as well, wanting to stay with England. But he got through it because his colonies, now states, were with him and supporting him and helping him and holding him in the middle of the night as he bawled his eyes out.
They were his friends.
After the Treaty of Paris, 1783 it was Carol and Lianna, North and South Carolina, who calmed his shaking nerves; James, Henry, and Roger, who was Connecticut, who partied with him all night; Chris, New Hampshire, who carried his drunken form back to the house; Phoebe and Alice (Delaware) who washed and put him to sleep; Verity (New Jersey) and Isaac (Massachusetts) who dealt with his hangover; and Elizabeth who rocked him to sleep while he cried about England.
They were his family.
They stayed with him during the chaos of the Articles of Confederation and helped him create the Constitution. Then, the day after the Constitution was made they all gathered at his house, presumably to congratulate him. And they did, James and Henry had clapped him on the back; Roger, Chris, and Isaac had playfully punched him on the arm; Phoebe and Alice both kissed him on the cheek and suffocated him in a tight hug along with Carol and Lianna; and Virginia… Virginia held him close and, with tears running down her cheeks, told him how 'absolutely proud that her little boy had come so far.' As she hugged him and he hugged her back, he had noticed that her body was becoming steadily warmer and warmer. He had drawn back from the hug to look at her and was completely surprised when he saw that she was glowing, literally glowing. As was all the others.
They were his victims.
Virginia had looked at him with pride and sorrow. She had answered his frantic cries and questions saying that this was inevitable. That since he was the United States of America they couldn't be separate from him. Because-
"We're part of you, Alfred. We've always been, we'll always be."
Because he killed them.
And despite his wails and sobs they grew brighter and brighter and brighter, nearly blinding him. He could see James grinning at him one last time and Carol and Lianna hugging each other and smiling at him through their tears and the ever-so-stoic Chris had a tear running down his face and- Virginia.
It wasn't that he loved her more or cared for her more than everybody else. It was because she was his mother figure and that she always more or less stood for everyone else and the simple fact that she was right in front of him that made him run forward and death grip her in a hug even though it was futile. Because she burned and burned brighter and brighter beneath him.
"Be happy, for our sake, okay Alfie?"
And then she was gone. Ashes at his feet.
Because they were him.
3:00 P.M.
America shook his head, he had to give final words to the rest of them before memories over took him. It was hard because each portrait reminded him of a dear, close person, and their sad story.
Like Jesse, the little boy he held in his arms as he bled and bled from all the unrest in his Kansas. Or Jerome, the rebellious teen who became the state of Texas. Or maybe Rebecca, the beautiful golden girl from California.
3:30 P.M.
He was done. America walked to the center of the room and looked at the floor. On it, barely seen on the pure white floor, was engraved the name-
Alfred F. Jones
America knelt and touched it, tracing his mangled fingers along the letters.
"When did you die?"
He smiled slightly.
"I miss you…"
The brilliant blue eyes watered slightly.
"You always wanted to be a hero."
The same blue eyes hardened.
"But when were you ever truly one?"
He lifted his hand from the carved name.
"You never saved me…"
Alfred… He had died long before America would be dissolved. When exactly he left this world, America would never know.
Alfred had begun dying when his beloved thirteen states had burned away in front of him. And he had gone to his own, personal hell the day after. When he had woken up from his restless sleep, with tear tracks still on his face and groggily faced the mirror.
And had seen Virginia.
He had screamed and tried to grab the reflection, only to find that that was what it was. A reflection. That her green eyes that were filling with tears were really his. That her rosy lips were mimicking the same exact words he was screaming. And when he looked at his hands, they weren't his, they were hers. He was trapped in the body of Virginia.
And the day after that was James.
Then Henry.
Then Carol.
Then…
It was his Hell.
And the same thing happened every time he gained a state. He would become them.
He was fifty-two different people, including Alfred and America.
Leading fifty-two different lives.
Having fifty-two different faces.
Living fifty-two different nightmares.
And maybe, when he died, he'd finally escape from his Hell.
4:00 P.M.
I do not own Hetalia.
I am so sorry that my writing has gone downhill but I have reached writers block so please don't kill me just yet. Or ever, really. I do enjoy living.
By the way, this story will NOT have a happy ending, there will be a reunion, but not a happy ever after ending because those always seem sappy, especially when I write them. And I seem to have a knack for misery and angst if I do say so myself. Really should stop reading Lemony Snicket...
I am also sorry for publishing this so late, there were some unseen events to my day.
Shout out to Devin Trinidad who I've hinted my theory about America's states, I hope I satisfied your curiosity.
Please review, and if you can please leave some suggestions for where this story should head. Once again, I already have the ending planned out but I need some advice getting there.
