I feel terrible for writing this, but it sort of had to be done at some point. I kind of just upchucked all of England's issues in this chapter. She's experienced a lot of trauma and sorrow and guilt and she's learned to force it down. She's had terrible things happen to her, and she's done terrible things to others. There has to be a reason for self-deprecating humor being a stereotype for the UK. Sometimes, she isn't joking.
Warning: There are a few depictions of wars, fires, and massacres in this chapter. I wouldn't call them graphic, but if you believe if it's better you not read them skip this chapter. I'll have a little summary explanation at the bottom.
England was much improved over America's War of Independence, but the date of her former colony's 'birth' had carried such negative emotions for so long that all of the painful experiences of her life became centered upon that day. Her dreams and sorrow of that time of the year were no longer just that of losing the girl who had been the closest to her in so long, but also bombs at all hours of the night, her soldiers ripped to pieces by bullets, plague wiping out entire swaths of her population. Her nightmares and waking moments were filled with the blood of indigenous peoples, African slaves, her people being killed by invading Romans and Danes, and even by her siblings' people.
On that particular night, June 30th, her dream ended with the ravens in the Tower of London flying into the sky as the building collapsed before her. The free ravens turned on her and began pecking at her face and her hands. She woke as one managed to pluck out her left eye. She was sitting upright in bed, in the dark, feeling chilled and sweaty. Her heart pounded in her ears for several moments before quieting. Her mouth was dry, and she was split between wandering down to the kitchen for water or lying down to pray there weren't any more dreams.
She pushed away the sheet and got out of bed. She looked behind her, remembering that Russia still slept beside her. He had rolled over in his sleep to face away from her. She left the room, making sure to not to shut the door so that its latch wouldn't click. She made her way slowly in the dark down to the kitchen. She got herself a glass of water and drank it while leaning her back against the sink. She then quietly made her way back upstairs and to bed.
When she climbed in, she heard Russia ask sleepily, "Why're you getting into bed?"
"I needed a glass of water," she explained quietly, omitting why she had needed it.
He mumbled some affirmation, placed an arm over her, and was asleep again. She sighed and wondered if the contact would make her sleeping better or worse. Luckily enough, she didn't dream for the rest of the night.
She went about her day a little more wearily than normal, but without noticeable difference in her work proficiency. Russia turned out to be an unusually pleasant distraction. Watching him make dinner had been surprisingly relaxing. It had been some time since she'd watched him cook, and he had almost preened under her attention and had returned it with smiles. He was being sweet, and she couldn't help but smile back.
Their evening meal was nice, and afterwards England occupied her time with a game she had recently found on the internet. As much as she might rag on America for her time on the internet, she knew she was hypocritical. However, night still came, and she still had to sleep. She was careful not to show Russia any of her nervousness regarding the nightmares she was certain she would have. Still, it seemed like he had noticed something as he ran his hand down her back from her shoulder to her waist then over her side to brush across her stomach before settling. It was meant to be a comforting motion, but she wasn't certain if it was comforting.
She dreamed of a crossbow bolt careening into the face of the man beside her. A chain-shot blasting through a mast so that it fell and crushed sailors while other cannonballs ripped through the hull and the bodies of men on deck. Rushing forwards only to be stopped by a bayonet plunged into her chest. She was trapped in the middle of the street as all the wooden buildings around her burnt to a crisp, and the fire singed her hair while the wind blew east. Then, she was hurled by an explosion into the sea, floundering in the water as she watched the ship before her sink in flames. It was suddenly solid beneath her feet and she fell to her knees on the deck of an entirely different sort of ship. She couldn't move as she watched African women and children be pushed into the sea by brutish sailors. She looked away to find herself seeing at the deathbed of her dear queen. She leapt for her, trying to save her, but she disappeared beneath her hands. She was clutching the dash of an airplane cockpit. It was a bomber and the city beneath her was an inferno.
She woke gasping for breath with her legs tangled in the sheets. She yelped when she felt a hand on her neck. "England, calm down," Russia said, his voice rough and his tone sleepy, "What happened?"
She pushed his hand away and took a few seconds to steady her breath. "It was just a dream," she told him quietly, trying to make out his features in the dark. He was rather close, leaning over her, and she felt his breath on her when he sighed.
"Are you alright?" he asked, moving to smooth her hair; but she batted his hand away.
"I'm fine," she insisted, "I just need sleep."
She rolled onto her side to face away from him. After several moments, he moved away to lie back down. She was grateful that he kept his distance, knowing he shouldn't behave so caringly towards her. She fell asleep again, but wasn't as lucky as the night before. Her nightmares continued to run red with blood.
She jerked awake at the sound of the alarm clock. Russia shot her a worried look, but she waved him off. She was slow to get ready. Old memories were seeping out of seams, and she half wanted to stare at them in horror and half wanted to brush them back under the rug. Russia almost knocked her over on his way out of the room she was paying so little attention to her surroundings.
"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked with his hands on her shoulders to steady her.
"I'm fine," she snapped, pushing past him to get access to the bathroom. She shut the door behind herself without glancing back. She took a long shower and dressed slowly; hoping Russia would be gone by then. She went down to the kitchen when she finished. He wasn't there, but he'd left breakfast out for her. She found a note tucked underneath her plate. He'd been rushing when he'd written it; his blocky all capitalized letters were slanted and messy.
In his letter, he apologized for upsetting her if he had and wished her well. She crumpled up the note and threw it away. He was much too nice to her. She only ate the breakfast because she didn't want to make something else. She ate less than half of it anyways.
When she went up to work, she brought her mp3 player into the office with her. She needed her favorite music to help block things out. Once she began working, she narrowed her focus. She didn't look at the time, never switched to a new song from shuffle, only stopped for a short time for lunch, and just kept working. She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped. She looked up, surprised to see Russia watching her with a bemused expression. She quickly glanced back down to her work.
"Your music is too loud," he said, removing his hand, and she realized her music was still playing, "You didn't respond when I called."
"Sorry," she said quietly, not looking at him and wanting him to go away. She heard him take a few steps away from her.
"Dinner will be ready soon," he told her. Then he left.
She sighed and lowered the volume once she heard the door click. With the music quiet and her mind out of her work, she was wandering back to her memories. She ran her hands over her face, ignoring the scrape of her cast. She felt so tired. After listening to her music for a few minutes more, she closed out of what she was working on and shut off her mp3 player. She got up and walked slowly down to the kitchen. She straightened her back and shoulders as she approached the kitchen and pressed her index fingers against the bridge of her nose before sweeping them down and across her cheekbones.
She entered the kitchen with her head high and took her usual seat. She watched him prepare their meal silently, wishing it would calm her and thinking how kind it was of him to cook for her. She eventually let her gaze drop to the counter. He shouldn't be doing this for her either. After some time, he stopped cooking and placed a plate before her. "Thank you," she told him, keeping her tone neutral.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
She glanced up at him to see that he was giving her a slight frown and his eyebrows had drawn just a little bit closer together. "No," she said, keeping her answer clipped.
"Why did you ball up and throw away my note?" he asked.
She closed her eyes for a few moments, hating when she slipped up. She pushed her food around on her plate. "I was rather grumpy this morning," she said, her tone edging towards caustic, "I didn't sleep very well."
"Nightmares," he said flatly, looking at her with raised eyebrows.
She glared at him out of the corner of her eyes before looking back to her food, "Dreams."
"Of course," he said; sarcasm certainly apparent in his tone. She ate a bite, realizing she wouldn't be able to fool him quite as easily as she fooled the humans. She wished she had prepared more appropriately for this. She had been foolish to think that this year would be different for the umpteenth time. They were silent.
"I've had nightmares," he told her quietly, resting his fork on his plate but still keeping it in his hand.
She looked up at him, uncertain, while he continued to look at his plate. Did he want them to talk? Was this an offer to discuss her dreams? Was this him trying to make her feel better? Didn't he understand that nothing could make those nightmares less painful? He couldn't help her. He shouldn't try to make her feel better.
He made eye contact with her, making her almost suck her breath back in. He was watching her, examining her, waiting for her to make her move. She looked away and told him, "Not mine."
She got down from her seat and took her plate with her, "You haven't had mine."
Once she'd scraped off her plate and set it in the sink she looked over to him. His elbows were on the counter, his fingers laced together, and his lips were leaning against his fingers. He eyes were still following her. She turned from him and left the room. She retreated to their bedroom and found a book to cocoon herself in. Russia plodded into the room much later. She gave him just a glance before returning to her book. She readied for bed after he did, but was certainly not looking forward to sleeping.
She curled up as close to the edge of the bed as she dared to be. She felt the tips of her husband's fingers against her shoulder blade. "Don't," she said as she readjusted the sheet over herself.
He withdrew his hand. England kept her eyes open for a long time. Even though she wasn't dreaming, she kept seeing terrors after faults after mistakes. The invaders sweeping across her land to hurt her people and hurt her. The times she hadn't been able to save her people, too little to do anything more than glare at the larger and stronger nations around her. Then when she had been older and stronger, she'd gotten angry and sought revenge. She was guilty of bleeding men, hacked limbs, screaming women and children, burning villages, barren fields, and empty eyes. Then it had gotten worse, she had gotten worse. She had thought it was her burden, so she slaughtered, sneered, used and abused, and wrung out whole nations while their blood dripped from the tips of her fingers.
When her eyes closed, she was granted no mercy. She watched again and again, lived over and over, the deaths of the very people she thought could help her. Every human who did something for her, anything for her, always died. Those few dear kings and queens she wished could have lived forever. Then, America abandoned her. She was left alone in the rain covered in mud and cold, and she might have deserved it. All the colonies left her. One by one, painfully, and she might have deserved that too. When it was too much, she forced herself awake. She sat upright in bed, her throat feeling full, and with hot tears on her cheeks.
"England?" Russia asked sleepily, and the sheet moved as he did.
She didn't dare look at him. She immediately got out of bed and walked into the bathroom. She didn't even turn on the lights until she had the door closed. "England?" he asked louder, more concerned.
She ignored him and faced the mirror. Her cheeks were wet, and her nose was red. She wiped her cheeks dry with the back of her hand and pushed back her hair. She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself and not imagine ghosts appearing in the corners. She was startled when Russia knocked on the door. "Are you alright?" he asked sharply.
"I'm fine," she snapped at him.
"Alright," he responded, on the defensive.
England didn't know what to do and stared questioningly at her reflection. She'd never had to deal with someone during this time before. Every who knew gave her space, and those who didn't usually weren't close enough to drop in on her. She'd always been alone. Still, she was fairly certain Russia knew she had a problem with July fourth. He just didn't know everything else that had been piled onto it.
Her breath shuddered and she fought to keep her face free of tears. She put a hand over her mouth and watched the mirror silently as she breathed. When she removed her hand it was shaky, but her breathing was even and her lips were still and her eyes dry. She had successfully calmed herself for now. She glanced towards the door, uncertain with how to deal with Russia. She took a deep breath and decided that the best option was just to go back to bed and ignore his questions. She didn't want to talk about anything, and she didn't want him to pick at her memories.
She opened the door to find that Russia had gone back to bed. She was more relieved than she believed she could be. Her breath came out too quickly for a sigh. She turned off the light and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark before crossing the floor back to bed. She climbed into bed and wrapped herself in the sheet and nuzzled into the pillow. She knew worse was to come, but for now she would take refuge in this small comfort. She closed her eyes on the dark and fell only to find memories of the times where she couldn't have helped but to let her tears fall.
She woke feeling drained, and she ignored Russia entirely. He clearly had no idea what to do and let her ignore him. She took a long, hot shower, needing something to comforting to prepare her for the day. She got ready slowly, and this time when she came down to the kitchen; there was no note waiting for her. She ate breakfast and arrived in her office irritable. She chewed out every person who called her and was certain she had insulted several of them. She didn't want to talk to anyone, and she swore that even her email responses came out bitter and sarcastic and angry. It wasn't her fault people she didn't want to deal with just kept bothering her. She ground her teeth and when she felt she had done enough; practically slammed her laptop shut.
She went down to the kitchen, feeling hungry and wanting food. She searched through the pantry and the fridge, thinking there was nothing to eat. She eventually realized she was looking for alcohol. She slammed the cupboard she had opened shut. She was already too aggravated to go rifling through Russia's house to search for alcohol and only be disappointed when she wouldn't be able to find. Her huff turned into a growl as she turned on her heel to head for the front door. It was in everyone's best interest for her to take a walk to calm herself and only come back when she was too tired to think. She walked out the door without her phone or her keys. She only barely remembered to focus on where she was walking so that she'd be able to find her way back later before storming off down the streets of the neighborhood.
Russia came home to a silent and empty house with one kitchen cupboard door left half open. After checking the house for anything, he stood wondering for a moment what to do. He only had one option. He called Scotland.
For those of you that need a summary: This chapter deals with England experiencing nightmares of terrible times in her life, from being invaded to invading and colonizing other nations, from June 30th to July 3rd. She doesn't tell Russia about any of it and increasingly becomes annoyed or angry at the things or people around her. Most tellingly, at the beginning of the chapter she goes from thinking Russia is sweet and appreciating when he is being nice to her and he calms her to thinking he is too kind and that he should stay away from her and that he can't help her. Russia tries to help her, but he doesn't really know what to do about it or even what it is. He hasn't even handled his own set of trauma and troubles entirely healthfully, not that England's bottling it away or drinking it away once a year is any better. So yeah, this chapter is mostly just set up for the Fourth of July. I just think England would have more to regret and mourn than just America leaving.
This wasn't so much as England having PTSD as England just having a really low point every year because her bad memories all just lead from one to another and in turn make her very upset. Some of the memories are specific to historical events, and some are more generic to the times. I'm just a little concerned it might not all be in character.
In other news, I haven't found any more RusUK stories. Also, I will be going to college from the end of June to the beginning of August which means I might be taking a hiatus. I don't know yet, but if I don't update during the summer that would be why. If I do take a hiatus, I'll try and make it up to you in August.
Please review!