Lately, America's routine has been as such: he wakes up in the morning, as late as possible, and eats whatever happens to be in his house while trying not to think about his job. When he arrives at his boss's office, he continues to not think about his job until his boss inevitably forces him to. When he goes home, he showers, eats, and goes back to sleep.

Other things used to be crammed in there, though he'd always found his work/life balance to be rather harsh— he used to go to a diner after work every Friday, and he used to do chores and run errands on the weekends. Now, he buys groceries immediately after work because of how hard it is to get out of bed, and he only does any chores when he absolutely cannot put them off any longer. His house collects dust and the grass in his yard gets too long, and he never really feels like a hero anymore, and the days spin on forever and ever just like this.

His boss starts forcing him to go to UN conferences again, because it looks bad not to when the headquarters are only a few hours away. America doesn't like the meetings as much as he had. The general assemblies bore him, and the other nations annoy him. He hates having to pretend everything is normal and that he actually wants to spend time being cordial with all the people that surely dislike him; he detests the person he had once been, the one that had pathetic rituals for ensuring he talked to everyone and always went out to get drinks or go to a restaurant after meetings. He hates the people he used to call his friends, too, but he tries not to think about that because it makes him feel like a bad person. Instead, America spends the meetings thinking about how much he would like to sleep, and then he does just spend them sleeping. Nobody acknowledges his change in behavior, and he hates himself for having thought that anyone would have cared.

One day, though, Britain wakes him up and asks if he wants to go get some food. America has a head-splitting migraine, but Britain has already pulled him toward the exit and suggested a nearby restaurant. "It's been so long since anyone's really seen you. Your boss is keeping you busy, then?"

"Yeah, I guess."

…

Britain orders cherry wine because he hasn't seen Michigan cherry wine before. Once the alcohol touches his lips, it's really game over— he takes his usual route of getting smashed as quickly as possible, and switches to bourbon in order to do so. For once Britain isn't crying over how their personal history has transpired— however, because Britain has already had his fun and America's migraine hasn't went away, they leave before Britain can get them kicked out for poor etiquette.

On the way out, a waiter with a glass of wine runs straight into America. It gets all over his shirt and pants and looks rather like blood, and most importantly it reminds America that he has work again in two days. The dread that he usually just sleeps through properly sets in as they walk to the car, and suddenly America's not feeling too well, but he tells himself he'll be able to sleep once he gets home.

Britain is babbling about some stupid shit, some war or… something. America doesn't really pay attention, but he can't help noticing when Britain stops talking. He's never been particularly at ease with Britain, and though things are much better than they were, this silence still irks him. He tries to think of something to say, but all he can really think about is whether or not anything bad'll happen at work this week.

The anxiety bubbles at the back of his throat. He wants Britain to ask so he can tell; he needs to tell someone, anyone, about this. America's so tired of keeping it a secret, especially when he feels like everyone already knows— and Britain never remembers anything that happens when he's drunk anyway, so there really can't be any harm in it.

"My boss hits me," America says. "He knocked me out the other day and, I don't know, things aren't usually that bad, but I really— I mean, I just can't stop thinking about it. You know? Like, I've never been knocked out by anyone. I'm really scared, 'cause I feel like I don't know what to expect anymore."

Britain doesn't say anything, not even by chiding America over clarity, so America continues. "I know that they say that, like, stuff like this is an escalation and escalations are bad and that this shit is so deadly and all that, and I know it's true, but I can't help not believing it. I mean, he's my boss— a boss would never do that, right? It's not like I've been hospitalized or anything yet, so why would it happen now? But I'm still scared, dude."

Britain still doesn't respond. For the rest of the ride home, America wonders if he actually spoke. Although he's generally well-liked among the other nations, he gets the feeling now that he really is alone. It doesn't matter if he acts normal, who he tells or doesn't tell. It doesn't matter if he stops hanging out with his friends or if he hates them or never sees any of them again. It doesn't matter.

When they get to America's house, Britain says, "Christ, America. Have you— have you had anyone over recently?"

"No."

"Well, don't. Fuckin' hell, this house would make a bad impression on anybody."

"It's a good thing you already love me."

"I never thought of you as this much of a slob. How do you even live like this?"

"Whatever, man," America says, and he goes to his room to change. His room, the one filled with dirty clothes and water bottles and granola bar wrappers. It's not like he wants to live like this, but when he gets out of his stained clothes he throws them on the rest of the pile, too tired to shower. He smells like cherries and alcohol, even with clean clothes. He never was that fond of either.

…

For all of Britain's assholery, he has made a habit of trying to be there for America. When America goes downstairs, Britain is slumped over a cup of coffee, but the mountains of dishes near America's sink are no longer there.

"You don't have tea?"

"Last time I had some, I threw it into a harbor." America sits down, coffee-less, and thinks briefly of how tired he is. He thinks it should be impossible, maybe a crime, for him to be so exhausted when he has only just woken up...

"America," Britain is saying. America looks up. "I've been trying to get your attention for a minute now. You said your boss beats you, didn't you?"

"I said he hits me. I honestly thought you wouldn't remember last night."

"How could I forget something like that? You said he knocked you out, and that you're scared. Why don't you just leave?"

"I can't. I've had that job my whole life, except for my military days. I've had plenty of bad bosses before, but I've never just abandoned my position."

"You could always come back to it later on. It's not like they're going to find another near-immortal representation of the United States to pitch ideas to while you're gone."

"People normally don't want you back when you quit," America says. "I don't know. I just can't imagine leaving now. It's only, like, two more years that I'm gonna have this guy. What is two years— like, half a percent of my lifetime?"

"I still think you should leave. You can tell them you're taking a vacation and come stay with Canada or Japan or me, or anyone else you know. It would be okay. I mean, you know things could get worse. How much worse can you allow them to get?"

"I guess we'll see."

…

The next two weeks are a flurry of hotlines. America's conversation with Britain has reminded him, if anything, of how bad things are going these days.

Unfortunately, most hotlines don't have too much advice. The vast majority of people simply have not gotten the shit beaten out of them by their bosses, and most people definitely aren't employed by one of the most powerful people in the world. Still, everyone seems to tell him the same thing: to leave, to save up money and abandon his job if he must. They all tell him there isn't a way of improving the situation once it has gotten to this point, at least not a way of improving it that he is responsible for executing. This is, of course, inapplicable to America's situation— things will get better if he stays long enough to see a new boss— but he still doesn't want to wait two or six more years. He doesn't think he can.

On the day he resigns, his boss tells him, "Well, don't expect to get hired back again."

"I won't," America says, and he leaves before his boss can throw a massive tantrum about it. On the way out, America gets the feeling that the price he pays for a swift exit will be the messiness of leaving— he has never been very efficient with these things. Ominous feelings aside, he is totally broke and unemployed. It is hard to feel good about his future, or anything at all, and it's still hard to want to do anything but sleep.

…

It doesn't feel as good as he'd thought it would. It had been much more convenient, for a long list of reasons, to just move to a cheaper part of his country than to try to stay with one of the other nations. America is glad that he has not been robbed of his country, but he still feels he has been robbed. He feels he's been robbed as he sits through the job interview to become part of the one-in-eight Americans that have worked in a McDonalds (though he is applying to be a supervisor, at least); he feels robbed as he steps into his studio apartment in Omaha, which disappoints him every day by failing to overlook New York City.

Canada drives down to his apartment one day. After a couple sips of coffee, Canada says, "Sorry you can't go to meetings anymore. We all miss seeing you there. It's not as much fun with an ambassador."

"Yeah, well," America mumbles. "I miss y'all, but it's not too bad. I kind of like having a normal job, and I like being outta the city."

"I could see you wanting something like that."

"Yeah."

It's clear to America that Canada wants badly to say something about America's last job, that he only refrains out of politeness. America isn't sure what the consequences of disappearing like this will be, not when (according to Britain) it had been so painfully obvious to everyone else that something was off with his government job. All in all, the reunion leaves him feeling strange— but at least he feels some way about it. At least he doesn't have other things to be concerned about.

When Canada leaves, America sits in his kitchen and tries to will some truth into what he'd told Canada. His apartment is bigger than his New York apartment had been, and it's cheaper, too. He'd recently been hired for tech support at a school. It really, really sucks to struggle with money, but hasn't he pined for normal life like this before? — this whole thing with his boss, it was just the final push toward having the life he'd always wanted. It's a heinous lie, he doesn't really believe it, but it's all he really has to work with. It's enough, and so is Omaha, and so is everything he managed not to lose.

I don't think anything else ever affected me so much as deciding to publish the original version of this back in late 2018. Rewriting this story really did give me some time to reflect. I am glad to be here, and I am glad for the people I've interacted with on here. This website isn't my favorite anymore, but it has been the most influential to me.

A review would be wonderful. Have an amazing day/night and stay safe.