America:
When I came to I was lying on the ground in a puddle of dried blood. My body screamed in pain with sharp stabs and throbs. My legs had already started healing but there was extensive damage done. It'd probably be another week before I could walk again… not that I particularly cared to. That was when I noticed the bottles sitting just inside the door frame. Fuck. I eyed the bottles preparing myself to move. Inching forward was torture. I pulled myself along the ground with my arms, dragging my legs as carefully as I could behind me. As I moved across the ground, I could feel the wounds along my chest and stomach tearing open and once again bleeding. Drops of blood were wiped across the ground beneath me, leaving a trail much like a slug. I felt pathetic. Here I am, pulling myself across the ground, bleeding and broken for alcohol to drown my thoughts away. I was the United fucking States of America! Regardless of what I am or was, I grabbed the first bottle, tore it open with my teeth and gulped it down. I used to struggle to drink it. It always felt so hot and chemical inside of me… I don't feel much of anything anymore.
I guess that's not true… I do feel. I feel emptiness. I feel sadness. Most of all, I feel loathing. I hate myself for being unable to save them when they needed me, and every time I think of their faces, begging up to me to save them, I feel sick. How could I portray myself as a hero and parade myself around like I could save the world when I couldn't save a. single. one. They're probably all dead now, dead and gone rotting away in Hell like I should be. I'm pathetic. I keep thinking I want to die and wishing I was dead, but here I am, clinging on to the Earth for my life like a filthy parasite. I don't blame him for torturing me. If I had the energy I'd probably torture me too.
Narrator:
A week and a half passed before Russia came to visit the American again. He had waited anxiously, occasionally standing at the basement door for hours as if expecting an answer about the other's condition. He stood there, drink in hand, and stared down the door. Slowly he tilted the drink back, and with a single gulp, it was gone. He set the glass on a small wooden table and unlocked the door.
Russia:
When I opened the door I was met with a cool, moist breeze. The basement was old and filled with mildew. When the house was built, the basement was used for storage, but during my Soviet days, the house was refitted with the equipment necessary for detaining prisoners, even ones who happened to be countries. Needless to say, it wasn't exactly fit for company. There had been many people detained in this basement for extended periods of time. During my darkest times, I would send my own people or my allies down into these cells and would torture them for days for information about nonexistent threats. The walls carry stains of blood and sometimes I swear I can hear the screams of those who died down here. Times were hard and everyone was an enemy. I'm sure America remembers that.
I stepped heavily down the hall thinking about the task before me. I would torture the American again… but which bones would I break? Which would I leave intact, covered in cuts and bruises? All of the nations have scars, but it seems inappropriate to scar his face. He's so young… he might not seem it much right now, but he is. I remember when I first met him. The world was just as harsh back then, and there he was, glowing with innocence and power. He was extraordinary. I remember when he broke free from England. I read it in the newspaper in my chair by the fireplace, and I remember being utterly unsurprised. Once, no one could rein him in. He was a mighty stallion, flicking his mane and stomping his feet indignantly at the bridles the nations tried to put on him. He was powerful, strong-willed, stubborn, and stupid. But he was beautiful…
I opened the door to his cell to find him, as I usually did, unconscious or damn near. He lay slumped over onto himself with a bottle between his legs and his arms wrapped limply around it. He looked like a skeleton propped up against it, ancient and white in the dark, dank cell. I called to him.
"Mr. Alfred~," as per usual, he didn't stir.
"Mr. Jones… it's that time again, da?" He shifted back against the wall, staring down at the ground. "It's not very nice to ignore me, Amerika." He shuddered, and I grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him down the hall. I nudged him into the room with the bottom of my foot and left it on him as I turned and locked the door. He lay there motionless beneath my foot, moving only for shallow breaths, in and out. I watched him for a moment and then with a sigh, connected my boot roughly with his gut. He stiffened immediately and slowly curled in on himself, laying on the ground in the fetal position.
"You're pathetic, Alfred." He didn't look at me; he just lay there with his eyes averted toward the ground. "You were something incredible once, weren't you, Alfred? You were gonna save the world? Look at you now. What the fuck happened to you?" He flinched heavily, closing his eyes as if to make me disappear.
"Hunh? Mr. Jones? What. The. Fuck. Happened?" I accented each word with another harsh kick. He wouldn't reply still so I reached into my coat and grabbed my pipe. I held it in one hand and let it fall to the ground with a threating thunk of metal on stone. I dragged it menacingly, scraping on the ground as I walked around to face him. He was laying in the fetal position facing away from me to avoid my pointed kicks. I rested it below his chin and lifted it and his face to look at me. His eyes opened slowly and my violet eyes were met with a lazy sky blue. He was dead inside. It was obvious from his eyes. Where did Alfred go? Where was the son of a bitch who hated me, my Communism, and everything we stood for? I let his face fall and I spat on him.
"You're dying here. You know that, don't you Alfred? You're letting it consume you. How bad would it look –the great America survives the worst string of terrorist attacks of the century only to fall at the hands of Mother Russia? …not that I had to do much. You're killing yourself for me, aren't you, Alfred? It's ironic, really. Here I go to all this effort to kill you myself, dragging you from where you lay dying and patching you up …all so I can kill you myself. Fuck that, eh Alfie?"
It was quiet for a while. He didn't move. He didn't speak or blink. He just fucking lay there and stared at the fucking ground. I stepped on his hand and drove my heel into it. When that didn't warrant much of a reaction, I swung my pipe down onto his hand, breaking at least two of his fingers. He still wouldn't look up. I kicked him over so he was laying on his back and his eyes fell down to the wall. I stood over him and stared down at his beautiful blue eyes which just wouldn't meet mine.
"Vse zayebalo!" I'd have to try something else.. I grabbed him up by his shoulders and stood him up against the wall. I pressed into him from behind, using my gloved hands to force his face into the wall.
"Fucking capitalist filthy son of a bitch! What the fuck do I have to do…" I bit down into his shoulder until I could feel him bleeding in to me. He tensed against the wall as my teeth sunk in and he began to breathe more quickly. I licked the blood where it was spreading and allowed my tongue to trace its way up his neck. He tasted bitter and salty, and his smell obvious from months without a decent shower. I would spray him down some times to avoid infection. His smell was still present, but not unbearable. I sunk my teeth into the lobe of his ear, leaving a bloody bite mark behind. I ran gloved hands along his chest as I pinned him into the wall with one knee between his legs.
I hate him so much. How can he just lay there and take it like this? He's so disgusting and pathetic. He doesn't even know that they're all still alive, and I'll be damned if I tell him. This fucking hollow shell… where has Alfred gone?
Narrator:
Gloved hands ran down his pale, sallow frame and fingers slipped under the waistband of his jeans. They were easily slid to the ground in a furious motion due to his excessive weight loss. The Russian removed his jeans and underwear and forced him up further against the wall holding his cheeks with each hand. The older appraised his body and after unzipping his own pants and removing an erect member, he quickly thrust into the man beneath him. The blond screamed and shook under the other man as he thrust into him. Blood ran down his member from the torn skin of the other's anus. Russia rest his head on the American's shoulder and thrust into him brutally, breathing heavily into his ear.
America:
God. It hurts so much. He's tearing me apart… what the fuck is wrong with him? Tears ran down my face as he pounded into me. I could feel myself tearing around his penis. White hot pain consumed me like fire and I was crying when I passed out.
Russia:
After a particularly hard thrust I felt his body go limp and I pulled myself out of him, watching as blood seeped out of his hole. I dropped him immediately and watched as he fell to the ground, battered, bloodstained, and naked except for the jeans around his ankles. I backed up slowly until I was met by the wall and I slid down it slowly until I was sitting on the ground. With my pants still open, I stared at him. He looked so horrible… almost exactly like all the dead bodies I'd seen and created. Goddamnit, Alfred. I was shocked when I felt warmth on my cheeks and I tested with a finger to find that I was crying. I hadn't cried since Stalin died, but here I was, crying. How pathetic. There's nothing wrong, no one has died. Just fucking deal with it… I let out a heavy sob and a chocked gasp for air.
"Fuck… Alfred. Please come back…"