A/N:
Yay, another dream! Although it doesn't exactly turn out well...and sorry! It's not as long as it normally is...
I sit against the wall in my room, running a hand through my hair. I sigh, leaning my head back. I close my eyes, trying to think of a good memory. Soon, I'm on my side fast asleep.
I'm standing in the same battlefield as before. I look towards the horizon, looking for movement. I walk, not getting any closer. I set my jaw in grim determination. I hear another boom from behind. This time I duck as the cannonball flies over my head. It crashes into a pile of bodies in front of me. I start to jog away, never coming any closer to the figure on the horizon. I hear the report of a rifle in the distance. I feel something hit my back, hard.
I wake up again screaming, "Don't shoot!" I hear thundering footsteps from Alfred's room. I curl up in a ball, sobbing into my bed cover.
"Oh God, Conner! Don't worry, it'll be okay," Alfred says as he wraps his arms around me. I cling to him like a life boat. Tears are marching down my face in straight lines.
"Rifles, bullets, cannons, bodies, blood," I ramble, tears still sliding down my face. "Someone shot me again. In the middle of the back. I don't wanna be shot again." By now, I'm completely broken down. Completely snapped. Now anyone can see who I am on the inside. A scared kid, scared to go to battle again, haunted by ghosts.
"Shhh. Don't worry. Everything will be okay," Alfred reassures me. He starts singing a song he sang to me after the war.
"A thousand tears fall down your cheeks,
Millions of ghosts haunt your thoughts.
But I'll be here, lighting the way for you."
I join in softly.
"No one will see, the terrified faces.
No one will see, you crying in the night.
Except for me.
Tell me what's wrong, tell me what's right."
I pull away smiling sadly. I feel a pain where the bullet hit my back. I hiss, Alfred's hand pressing against the open wound. Alfred stares at me puzzled. His eyes widen as he realizes it's not sweat he's feeling from my back. He forces me to stand, running to the bathroom connected to my room. He turns me around to examine my back. I glance at him, extremely confused. My big brother is chewing his lip, worry clear in his eyes. He takes hydrogen peroxide and a few cotton balls. I groan, understanding what he's doing. I wait, bored, for him to finish cleaning the wound.
"England! Can you get me some more cotton balls? I ran out," he shouts into the bedroom. I wince. I feel his fingers gently prodding around the wound.
"I hope you washed your hands," I hiss through my teeth. Alfred pauses for a moment then I hear the sink being turned on. I roll my eyes. "So your first reaction to a wound, is to go clean it. Not wash your hands? God, there's something wrong with you." He smacks me on the back of the head.
"At least you reminded me! Good God are you ungrateful!" he says harshly. I roll my eyes.
"Let me put it this way: if you had been shot, would you want me to clean my hands before cleaning the bullet wound?" I ask.
I hear mutters coming from him. Something like, "Whatever…You're still my little brother…" I smirk. I see England step into the bathroom, holding a bag of cotton balls. When he sees my back he covers his mouth in shock.
"What the bloody hell?!" he whispers. I shrug.
"I haven't even seen my wound. I'm pretty sure it's not too bad, trust me. My head was almost taken off by a cannon ball. Another time my knee was shattered," I inform him, still looking bored. England just stares at me, horrified. "What? I've been shot before."
"You…and you're still happy?" he asks amazed.
"Right now I'm just bored. True, Alfred shot me once and he shattered my knee, but I've done worse to him and we still manage to forgive each other," I look into the mirror and freeze. There's something off. I know it's still me, but my hair isn't as dull as it normally is. "What the fuck?" Alfred looks up.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"N-nothing," I mutter, still staring at my reflection. Why am I getting stronger? Why am I getting better? Why were my old wounds reopening? I furrow my brow, thinking.
I wake up feeling really weird. I shrug it off and turn off my alarm clock which is blaring "Goodbye" by Glenn Morrison. I pick up my glasses. I freeze, examining them. They don't have any cracks. At all, anywhere. None. They aren't broken anymore. I think of calling to Alfred, but I know on weekends he only wakes up around 12:00 PM. I walk into the kitchen, oblivious to the fact that several nations are watching the TV on the counter. I finally look up, taking notice of the countries. My jaw drops as I watch the news channel.