Shots were fired at the citizens whose only defense were rocks, sticks and snowballs.
Blood painted the snow, bodies fell to the floor. Far more than just 5 fell that day, it truly lived up to the name of Boston Massacre. England smiled from a nearby roof. He knew that this would make a small difference in the American downfall. Surely with a few more changes to history, he could prevent the failure he had lived.
The past England paced in his inn room. "How could that man have known about the rebellion? It couldn't have been witchcraft. No….a gypsy perhaps? Well how ever, it did happen which means that these battles could come true." He stared at the paper. "You know, this looks a lot like my penmanship. Heh, its nice."
"Do you always talk this much when you're alone?" The past American leaned against the door frame in a blue coat. "H-how long have you been there?"
"Only since about 'penmanship'."
"W-why are y-you here? You should be at home."
America scowled. "I would, except I got a letter explaining that your soldiers shot down my people. Why would you do that to me?"
"Because you don't seem to understand who you belong to. Your little tantrum is coming to an end Alfred and I will make you obey if it's the last thing I do. You can back out anytime now, because you forget that you are dealing with the GREATEST EMPIRE TO EVER LIVE, BOY!" The Brit calmed down and steadied his voice.
"If you want to be such an adult, perhaps you should start acting like one and sucking up the consequences, because you are not going to win this war." England stated followed by a sigh and sat lazily in a cushioned chair. "Now would you be so kind-no…, obedient as to fetch me a strong glass of scotch?"
America huffed as he stomped down to receive the alcohol. He handed it to the empire. "Very good Alfred…I can't understand why you just can't follow orders and be more like your brother." The younger was offended by this comment and took his opportunity to knock the drink from his older brother's hand.
The Englishman stared, astonished he rose from the chair and smacked the boy across the room. "How dare you! How dare you give me that intolerance! I am your superior and you will treat me as such! Now get out before you anger me further brat." The American looked up from the wood floor with tears in his eyes and a handprint on his cheek. England had never struck him across the face before.
"F-FINE! I HATE YOU!" he ran into the street, falling to his knees. He just wanted his old England back, was that too much to ask?
England's heart was pulled at the words of his colony. He knew that he could never hate America. How could America hate him? He was only sure that America needed to be taught a lesson and a slap of the hand was not enough. He knew perfectly well what that paper was and that he would win this war.