A/N: This also came from an AMV. I have too much free time T.T . Anyways, Enjoy...

Help.

"England?"

"Go away, America."

"But-"

"Go away. I don't want to see... I don't want to talk to you. Or anyone, so don't let bloody France in either."

"But Brit-"

"GET OUT ALREADY, GIT!"

I flinch, because even in those harsh words his voice breaks and I can hear his pain. He's alone in a world of nothing. I nod meekly and back away.

I'm such a hero.

England is blind. France nearly lost his life and is still in recovery. Both Canada and China had taken hits similar to mine. Russia is the best off of us all, escaping with only minor cuts and bruises. Even I'm broken and battered... in more ways than one. It shouldn't bother me so much – but it did. Because this wasn't supposed to happen, and its my fault it did because I led them into this. I ordered attacks, stood shoulder to shoulder to these men while we fell to pieces. While we almost died. And it was for nothing because we lost. I don't want to think about it anymore, but now that people are, for the most part, done healing, I can't walk down the hall without seeing the bandages wrapped around arms or legs, or the gauze taped to faces. And the way they look at me is with the one thing I cannot stand – Pity. I am America. The greatest country on Earth.

But I'm beginning to crumble, slowly. I'm falling, and I don't understand. I feel helpless, like I'm in the middle of the ocean without so much as a piece of driftwood to grab to keep my head above water.

I walk back to my own room and the doctor is already there, scolding me because I shouldn't be out of bed due to my injury to my side, and I wave him off with some super kind words of American vocabulary as a parting gift, before kicking him out the door and sitting down on the hard hospital bed. There's a mirror staring at me, and I grimace because I look awful. My head has a thick white bandage wrapped tightly around my forehead where the scars opened yesterday. I've given up on trying to pull a shirt over my head because it opens the stitches in my side, so I can plainly see the white of the bandages on my almost as pale skin. There are bruises on my jaw and scrapes on my bare shoulders. There are also dark bags under my eyes the doctors worry about, and I can't seem to get them to understand that I'm not in any pain they can cure.

I stare at that face in the mirror and try to find the past me – the real America that needs to surface again – but it's not there, or if it is its too deep for me to find at the moment.

I don't want to sleep, because dreams are worse than reality. There I relive the horrors, over and over. It's like that guy from the book I read a couple weeks ago - "I drag myself out of nightmares only to find there's no relief in waking."

I tear my eyes away – blue eyes that are so tired and scared I don't ever want to see them anymore – and stare at something else, and see that there are doctors running by. I stand up and run over, forgetting for a moment my injury as I slide open my door and look out. The doctors are crowding around someone, and I hurry forward to see who it is.

Green eyes that used to be so bright and emotional are now gazing blankly at me from the center of the doctors, and I freeze in place. The owner of these eyes is wearing nothing but a pair of blue hospital shorts, and he looks pale in the cold air of the halls. His steps are unsteady, but his hands strong and sure as he shove the outstretched hands away. "Let me go! I want to walk around!" he sounds almost childish.

The doctors continue to try and reach out to him, hands try to guide him. What kicks me into action is when a needle appears. "Hey! Stop it!" I yell, and rush forward. My hands are grabbing white jackets and pulling, pulling them away from him. His head jerks up at my voice, his hair bounces into his eyes and his hands don't move to remove it, to brush it back like they once would have.

"A...merica..." he whispers, and I don't look at him, because I don't want to feel guilty for his problem as well. The doctors glare at me, but the one with the needle has stalked off in a huff, so I don't care. I hate needles. A tiny piece of metal shouldn't be able to do so much. I'm thinking on my hate for needles when a touch on my arm makes me jump. His voice brings me back, tears me out of my thoughts. "America."

I turn slowly, looking out to the left because I can't meet those eyes. "That's me."

He doesn't say anything, but I can feel his eyes on me even while I'm staring at my bare feet. "America... what..." he hesitated. "Where am I?" he sounded like a lost little kid, and America was forced to drag his eyes from the floor to look into that soft, weak face. His eyes were so misty and unclear. He was different.

The question itself broke America's heart. "You're right outside my door, Brit." he said quietly.

"Bloody hell, you of all people." England snorted. He tried to brush past, but his feet became tangled. He fell.

I was slow to react, expecting England to be able to take care of himself. I barely snagged his elbow as he dropped with outstretched hands, and then he banged his knee on the floor. His curses brought more scraped faces poking out of rooms, and what a sight we must have been, him struggling to stand and me grimacing as he gripped my waist to keep upright. His arm brushed the wound and I growled. He noticed and jumped back, wobbling and stretching out his fingers for the wall. I reach out and guide his hand and he hits me, a bit high so its around my throat.

"I don't need help." he snarls, and I let go, backing up. Then his face, twisted into anger, falls into something I don't want to see – fear and helplessness. I want to look away but his eyes are staring through me and I can't.

"I'll get you back to your room." I tell him, hoping for him to agree because it would be more of a damage to his pride to go wandering through the halls until he was lost even more.

"No... no, America. Can you... can you help me find the kitchens?" he mumbles, reluctantly, and I bite my lip to keep my heart from tearing.

"Yeah, sure, England." I say. He reaches out a hand and I hold out my arm. He grabs me just below the elbow and I feel insanely awkward as we walk towards the dining hall. He's still a bit slow, and his other hand reaches out every once and a while, searching for something to hold. His steps are wary, as if he would be stepping off the side of the earth with the next one, and its stupid because he is never afraid, or careful, he's headstrong and he always charges straight into things.

We've reached the hallway containing the kitchen when his steps become surer. I think that he can maybe smell the food or something. We keep going, gaining a bit of speed, until we're walking normally as though he wasn't blind. But his hand on my arm is enough to remind me that he is.

"...I think I can manage from here." England says, and I realize we've entered the room. I nod, and he hurriedly lets go of my arm and draws away, just a step but it angers me that he immediately gains that look of worry, a slight crease between his freaky eyebrows.

I grunt, not able to say anything, and turn away. But not before I hear him mutter, "Thank you, America."

I close my eyes, because I'm not sure the world is right anymore. England doesn't do stuff like that. He doesn't apologise. Not ever. So he can't be England anymore.

And it's my fault.

A/N: So yeah, not as sad. And you can take this any way you want - UsUk or just them being friends or whatever. Not as good as the first chapter, in my opinion, but you know, whatever. Anyways, review with your thoughts!