WOOHOO IT FEELS GREAT TO BE OFF OF WRITERS BLOCK. And this one is very sensitive, so read at your own risk.

Whoever said that America was an innocent man has only seen him from the front. Behind your back and when you're not looking, he is a murderer. It is a strange thing to say though, seeing as he's such a cheerful person. It makes you wonder whether my words are lies or not. But it is the truth.

He smiled at the first time I met him. He greeted me with a laugh and a pat on the back. I asked his brother, England, about him. He said to be careful. I laughed at that. To me, America was the very personification of happy. He was cheerful and always knew how to bring up my spirits.

I was merely curious. Whenever I heard of world news, I heard it from America. In my eyes, he was a hero. The savior of the world. I wanted to know what other people thought about him. Whether he was a hero for everyone, like he was for me.

I asked the Middle Eastern Countries first. They were more polite then I was told. America told me they were cruel, heartless people who hurt everyone else. But I found out that was a lie. They were very kind and very shy. They didn't mention anything about themselves unless asked. I came to like them very much. I asked them about what they about my beloved hero.

They looked at each other and back to me. Their answers were shy and their voices carried hurt and pain. "He has been hurting us for a very long time." I was shocked. I asked them more questions. I learned of wars and bombings. I knew of these already. But when America told me about them, he said he did it for justice. But I could see no justice in their eyes. Only hurt and fear. Only a want to please him, so that he would leave them alone.

They were uncomfortable. I left them be and walked away, thinking about what they had said. I was denial – to me, he was still a hero, but one that I was no longer sure off. I wanted to ask him about his thoughts, but I didn't. I decided to ask more people. The first person I turned to was his brother, England. He had warned me about America, and now I was going to ask why.

He had replied with a sigh and that his brother was a murderer, and that he was no better. He told about all the crimes he commits behind the scenes and how ashamed he was. I left England be, as I could tell he would burst out into tears any moment.

There were many more people I asked. So many, and all had replied the same way.

I was beginning to believe that my hero was not one at all. The stories of his cruelty were beginning to haunt me day and night, and I could not take my mind off of them. From the cries and murdering of the innocent Muslims, to the brutality to the Native Americans, I was fearful. I didn't know whether I was going insane or not.

My one hero was a monster. And I confronted him about it. I shouted and I screamed and I yelled. I had hot tears running down my face when I was done. He had stayed silent the whole time. The usual sparkle had left his eyes and a calmer look rested on his face. "I am not an innocent man."

He stood up and walked towards me. I looked up at him. What would he do now? I felt a sharp pain in my gut and saw a knife, with blood dripping out on the floor. My lip quivered and I looked back into his clear blue eyes. They held no emotion. "I was hoping you would never find out."

I fell to the floor with a thud, whispering out my final words. "You're not a hero."

And, the point of view is unknown, so just make it up as you go. And for me, a lot of what I said is true in this story.

- What did you like about it?
- What can I improve? (plot-wise)
- What can I improve? (writing-style wise)

I STILL LOVE YOU ALFRED I SWEAR.