9. Sensation of loss.
Alfred penned out the script with a trembling hand. Sometimes his quill slipped, but Alfred forced himself to continue. Writing out the words gave him tangible reason to finish. The collective voices of his people clamored for liberation-and even though Alfred doubted himself and hesitated to finish the document, the notion of justice for his people spurred him on. So Alfred continued writing into the dark hours of the night, downing several cups of coffee to drown out any hesitation or fear. Sometimes Alfred would silently mouth parts of the document to himself, as though it would make the magnitude of his goal real and defined, not some abstract dream: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident', 'It is the Right of the People', and 'we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our Sacred Honor.'
After the document had been scripted, Alfred lifted the document into the light. The words seared into his eyes, branding the truth into his memory.
"Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness," Alfred whispered to himself, as though confirming this was the right thing to do. Alfred certainly wasn't doing this out of selfishness-he cared about his people, and he wanted to give them what they wanted. It was the right thing-but it wasn't the easiest choice. Long did the American nation rely on England, one of the most prosperous and powerful nations in the world. Despite all the wrongs Arthur (England) committed against him (America), the path wasn't as clear-cut as he thought. What would England think? Yes, England wronged America, and he knew that, but thinking about standing before the grand nation nearly sickened him.
How could he do this to his own father?
But it was for the people, he kept telling himself. And America shall stand as the icon of justice for its citizens. Writing his signature, Alfred F. Jones had then sealed the fate of America.
-x-
Alfred stood before Arthur, holding the Declaration of Independence before him. As Alfred read, he would occasionally steal glances toward Arthur. In the meantime, Arthur laced his hands together in front of his mouth; his features utterly impassive. Drawing courage from this, Alfred finished reading the names signed from each respective state, and lowered the document from his face. The suspense drew out between them as Arthur remained silent, motionless. Alfred's heartbeat doubled, knowing the answer even before Arthur uttered a word. At this point, Arthur unlaced his fingers from his mouth and glanced at Alfred with an unfathomable expression, before turning his back toward him. "Denied."
Numbed, Alfred dully noted the sharp edge in Arthur's tone. Even if his face didn't reveal anything, his restrained anger seemed to cast a chill in the room. Of course he would disagree. Alfred knew that, and he also knew this was a hopeless cause, but he tried anyway. He tried.
"That's all you have to say, Arthur? I barely finished writing this; I felt sick and couldn't sleep. Yet you don't even have the good manners to give me a proper response."
Arthur didn't turn.
"Don't preach to me about 'good manners'. I gave you my answer."
"Then I will fight for the rights of my people. They deserve happiness, freedom-"
"You hardly know any of those concepts. You are naïve and foolish-to think of your rebelliousness against me is unbelievable. So tell me, Alfred. What is Happiness? Freedom? Liberty? What do you understand about these notions? More importantly, do you understand what it means to be a country?"
Alfred flushed as Arthur chastised him. The elder nation always treated him like a child. Always. Even now, when Alfred towered over the elder nation and read the Declaration of Independence, Arthur didn't see him for the man he was. Why couldn't he accept this was the only way to avoid conflict, to make peace with everything before? "Being a country means making your people happy, doing things that are best for them. It means making sacrifices-it means putting your own life on the line for them! God willing, I'm doing what I have to. It's for justice, Arthur, it's-"
"I will hear none of it, especially your patronizing speech about sacrifice. Do you think I don't know anything about sacrifice, Alfred? I've lived centuries more than you have: I endured wars, destruction, calamity. If a mere fledgling like you dares to think that you're the only one to suffer-you don't have a single bloody clue. None whatsoever. You can write whatever fancy notions you please on that parchment, but you just don't get it."
Alfred shook his head. "No. You don't get it, Arthur. Do you think I'm actually happy doing this? If I could do things differently, then I would do it. It's just…"
"It's just what, Alfred?" Arthur's tone was gentle, though Alfred could detect mocking undertones. Scorn. "Suppose if you did gain your independence. What would happen then? Have you considered the consequences behind your decision?"
Suddenly, the young nation became wearied, feeling as though he lived several centuries. "America stands by his people, even if it means war. Please consider it."
"Fine. If it will teach you a lesson, let it be war, then. England stands by his King-for he has sworn his undying word. God help you, Alfred."
"God help both of us," the young nation stated, before finally departing.
-x-
"Listen to me. It doesn't have to be like this, Arthur. I wrote the Declaration of Independence so there wouldn't have to be a war between us. Please, the only thing you have to do is agree to these terms. Acknowledge that I'm my own country-not a colony."
At this, Arthur slammed his fist onto the table-the resounding thud sounded like a gunshot in the unnatural silence of the room. Alfred never saw Arthur lose his control like this; not even after the Boston Tea Party. The invisible chasm between them only grew further apart as Arthur trembled-though whether it was out of anger or anguish, Alfred couldn't tell. Arthur clutched against the edge of the table, knuckles white before his shoulders shook with laughter. There seemed to be a manic edge to his laughter, an unchained madness that chilled Alfred into numbness.
"You…You honestly think that a piece of parchment can fix everything," Arthur said once his laughter subsided. He sounded genuinely astounded by the idea. "Oh yes, of course. Simply write pretty words down on a piece of paper, in hopes of appeasing your old steward. Unbelievable. After everything you've done-do you believe mere words can undo all the damage that you caused?"
"It's the only thing I can do. This was the only way I could think of fixing things."
Arthur's face shadowed, and Alfred didn't recognize the inhumane man standing before him. This figure wore Arthur's visage and spoke in his voice, but Alfred saw a madman in the throes of fury and despair. Was this the same man who baked him home-made scones, gave him a cup of honey-brewed tea every time he was sick, and told him fairytales every bedtime? " Does the Declaration of Independence give me back all the wasted taxes, my fallen soldiers? This isn't something you can make right with a simple apology, Alfred. Such utter foolishness. I can't even let your naiveté excuse the costs you inflicted on me. You-"
"I lost soldiers too," Alfred said, his face reddening and his blood pressure rising. "I didn't want this to happen, Arthur. But your so-called King has-"
"Don't you dare insult the King in front of me, you ignorant prat."
"Listen to me. Your King imposes ridiculous taxes on us, forces us to quarter his soldiers, and controls the way we live. And you let it happen! You don't do anything, you-"
"Shut your trap, twat. I changed your bloody diapers, I gave you a home, and I even raised you like a son. Did you forget everything I've done for you? I am your father, Alfred. You're lucky I've been patient for this long, but you're starting to push me past my limits."
"You're still not listening, Arthur! Your King does what he pleases, and he leaves my people to suffer! How can you simply agree with everything he does? Are you actually the one doing all this, or is your precious King stringing you along?"
"Not another word," Arthur said, his voice rising. Grief pitched his voice in a higher register. "This isn't about the King. This is between us. You made the decision of taking Fort Ticonderoga, Crown Point, and Boston. You dumped over shiploads of tea, and attacked my soldiers. What was I supposed to do? Did you think I would actually take that lying down? Do you think that I could turn a blind eye to everything you did?"
Shaking his head, Arthur then turned. "Tell me, Alfred. Can you honestly say that I should just forgive everything you did and pretend nothing happened? That's not how the real world works, and let me tell you, you'll have to learn that the hard way. If war is enough to teach you, then let there be war."
Alfred slumped-all the anger and frustration draining away from him. Resignation took its place. Feeling unfathomably tired, Alfred suddenly wished to run away from it all, to shut out the angry clamoring in his head. He could feel conflict broiling inside-The Patriots and The Loyalists. "I know. I know that. But if I could change everything and make this all work out, make everything right again, I would. As you said, Arthur, I can't turn a blind eye to what you did, either. Do you honestly think it's right that you taxed me, my people? You have to know that what your King is doing is wrong. Why don't you do anything about it? You simply watched as he oppressed my people. You're my father, aren't you?"
Arthur stiffened, and his face paled. "Unlike you, I know my place. It's time that you know yours."
"So that's how it is, then," Alfred said. "I did everything I could. Even you can't say anything against that. Next time I see you will be on the battlefield."
Nothing more needed to be said. Both knew that. Alfred stood up, back rigid as he turned away from his former father and older brother. War was inevitable-and Alfred finally came to realize that. Sometimes Alfred thought of going back to Arthur. But he wanted to prove something, even if it meant giving up everything. He'd gone too far to change everything that happened. Thus, the proclamation was stated: Let there be war.
-x-
"If there has to be a war, let it be between us, England."
Stepping forward, both countries faced one another. They were no longer the entities known as Alfred F. Jones or Arthur Kirkland-they were the embodiment of America and England. America stood proud, defiant, rifle pointed toward the immoveable country. His thirteen colonies stood behind him, bayonets gleaming, outfitted in blue.
"Fine," England stated, own rifle pointed towards America. "You chose this, America. You chose to break away from me. Since you no longer claim you're my son, then I have no qualms about shooting you."
"If you really want to, England, then go ahead. I'm not stopping you. I would much rather die a free country than an enslaved colony."
"Foolishness. Giving up your own life for idealistic notions. You've always been naïve. If you're so willing to die, then so be it!"
Staring into the barrel of the gun, America faced his oncoming death with calm recognition. For a moment, the gravity of the world weighed upon him-and he saw a brief glimpse of England holding out a hand to him, telling him to come home. The rain grayed into mist, and England stood before him, a spectral figure whose face was distorted like a memory half-forgotten. Everything seemed so far away now-the battlefield, the rain, the space between them. America was distantly aware of his colonies shouting behind him, telling him to raise his gun, to defend himself, but the only thing he was aware of was England's anguished face. A few seconds later, America registered that England was crying-why was England crying? What did he have to grieve for, especially since he could kill the son he raised who eventually ended up betraying him?
"I should just kill you, you know," England stated, though grief cracked his voice. "It would make things easier. Then I won't have to worry about you anymore, you ungrateful twat. To think that you…D-Damn! Why don't you…"
His rifle trembled, and England couldn't even point the barrel to America's face. A sob wrenched out of England as he dropped his rifle. His shoulders drooped, and his head bowed in defeat. Then England dropped to his knees, body sagged into the mud. The British soldiers stood behind him, unsure as they uneasily pointed their rifles toward the colonies. America's own colonies also shared the same confusion, glancing at the fallen figure who raked his fingers through the mud, weeping and cursing.
"Put down your guns," America said, turning back to face his colonies. "I promised I wouldn't cause any more bloodshed. There's no need to continue this war."
Facing forward and staring down at the broken nation, Alfred wondered whether his victory and independence was really worth all the pain. But the revolution was set into motion-and neither of them could stop it.
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. It all seemed empty, hollow. Yet the damage couldn't be undone. The rain poured relentlessly on both of them, silhouetting their figures into silvery mist, merciless as it smashed against America's war-weary body. Not knowing what else to do, America bowed his head in solemn reverence to the scene. The rest of the colonies followed suit.
"I'm no longer your responsibility, England," America whispered. "You don't have to worry about me anymore. Just let it go."
Just let it go. There didn't need to be any more bloodshed, more misery. Let there be time to grieve, to mourn for their lost soldiers. Nothing more needed to be said-just the ambience of the rain punctuating the silence between them. Alfred couldn't bear looking at his former father anymore and turned away. Whether England called back for him or not, America didn't know. He simply heard the deafening sound of rain.