America stared up at the red ceiling of his room, the colors so vibrant and yet dulled in his mind. He had been told to rest by his boss and yet he got no sleep, something that has been happening more and more these days. He hadn't eaten in days either, his appetite lost in a sea of despair. He wasn't sorry for himself; he didn't need anyone's help; he wasn't a hero. He wanted to die and yet he was trapped on this world. Stealing though, it just made him feel so…human.
He stood up, his only clothing a black pair of pajama shorts. He didn't bother with his glasses which sat on a bed stand. He had failed his mission; he was nothing. He acted hastily with half-assed practice. He went into the kitchen, staring at the empty fridge for a few minutes, not with hunger but in contemplation.
He fell onto the couch in his dark living room. Everything, once so vibrant and energetic just felt so…gloomy. He needed to sleep and eat. He knew this, but he couldn't. He knew his state wouldn't get him through something like stealing the Declaration of Independence. He sat up and went to another room, pulling away at a picture hanging on a wall where a safe was hidden. He opened it, pulling out a black pistol. He aimed it at his temple.
There was blood and he felt his body go numb, and yet he still wasn't dead. He lay on the floor, blood in his hair. He couldn't die. Why was there nothing that he could do? Why wouldn't people just forget him already?!
"DAMN IT ALL" He began weeping, the blood and tears mixing together. "DAMN IT, DAMN IT, DAMN IT WHY?! WHY DID YOU PUT ME HERE GOD?! I'M NOT STRONG ENOUGH FOR THIS SHIT!" He screamed, the blood drying, his wound leaving as though it were never there.
He remained on that floor, his cries a silent whisper in the vast, empty house.
The days went on as he went through his house like a ghost, his phone never answered; the fridge never returned to; the mail never picked up. He never slept and his weight began to drastically go down, the blood stains on the floor remaining as well as the gun.
It had been days before he visited his treasure room, but when he did his chest began to race. He smiled at the sight of his treasures and realized something. He didn't live to be a country, to be the hero. He lived for himself now and could do whatever the hell he wanted. He collapsed in that room, his sleep clean of those dreams that had been plaguing him. He knew that this…stealing…was his greatest claim to history. His name would never be written, but his story would be known.
He giggled at these thoughts as they came to him, his fears suddenly put to rest. He could steal things, practice his thefts, and become the biggest damn threat in the world. He wouldn't steal the Declaration of Independence. No, he was going to go after David on his own. He was taking that bitch and he didn't need the mafia's help to do it.
Maybe this wasn't his path or fate as a country, but to hell with fate, America did what he wanted.
(I do not own Hetalia)