"I need a time-out," America says, and he sits on the floor. He wipes his nose with the back of his wrist and frowns at the blood.
"This is your fault," his boss says. "I wouldn't have to hit you if you would just listen."
"Yeah. I'm sorry."
"You always say that, but you never fucking learn."
"Sorry," America says again. His nose is still bleeding— it's just gushing now. Really, it's rather disgusting. He doesn't know how they're ever going to get all this blood off the floor.
"All I wanted was for you to volunteer with storm relief. Why couldn't you do that? Do you know how shitty we look right now, and then you have to show all your friends you can't even fix your own problems?"
"Well, I'm still in pain." Ever since the Middle Eastern conflicts, America has been having some pretty significant chronic pain. Like all veterans, the government is trying to fuck him over hard— unfortunately, though, he also cannot be insured by the VA because he doesn't have a medical discharge and isn't legally old enough to have completed a full contract. In other words, his veteran status just doesn't make sense, and his medical information doesn't match. It draws less attention if he's just an uninsured civilian with a shitty life.
Ever since the Middle Eastern conflicts, he has also been running out of money. Fast. This isn't a good time to bring up the whole Medicare thing again, but he doesn't have his head on straight. "Uh, if you could, I don't know, pull some strings and get me insured…"
His boss twitches, raises a fist and then puts it down. "Get out," he says. "Go home. And the next thing I tell you to do, do it."
On the way home, America reflects a little. He feels bad about how things have turned out, but he doesn't even consider escape— it's not possible for him now. He would need a support system for that, and the other nations would judge him so harshly for the mess he's gotten himself into. He doesn't even see them much anymore, just because it would be too difficult to explain away the constant injuries. He's really just fucked, and so is his nose, apparently, because it won't stop bleeding. It's gotten all over his car, and now that it's on his things it's somehow even more gross, and though he's tired he has to clean it before it stains.
His back hurts while he cleans it. He almost talks himself out of it by thinking, Really, what is pain? Doesn't it just feel different? but really, what is all this shit? If things keep going like this, he won't have to worry about chronic pain or health insurance too much longer. When he thinks about it like that, it's almost nice.
….
Out of something like stubbornness, America would be hard pressed to say he doesn't like being treated this way. Maybe it's a little stupidity, too.
The facts are as such: as usual, his boss got mad at him, but this time he totally K.O'd America with the blow. It's really rather difficult to ignore the awkwardness of such a situation; America hadn't wanted to get knocked out and his boss had not meant to do so. Right now, his boss wants him out, but America really doesn't think he should be standing right now. He's kind of dizzy, he kind of wants to vomit a little, and this kind of feels like the TBI he got a while back (also in the Middle East). America couldn't even think his way to the door right now, and his boss wants him to walk…
Yeah, he'd be hard-pressed to say he doesn't like this. He really couldn't be bothered to say anything at all.
I wanted to rewrite this story because I couldn't delete it but also couldn't stand to have it up anymore. I have this philosophy about just letting kids be cringe on the internet, but man, it's so much different when you're the kid. There'll be a second chapter to this story in the next week or so.
A review would be awesome. Thank you, have a great day, and stay safe.