It's dark and musty, and there are some rather peculiar smells. Maybe it's just medicine... or maybe it's just rotting bodies...

'Out of the way! More injured!'

And in pour in a countless number of injured soldiers. The nurse are completely overwhelmed right now. The whole room is filled with pained moans, and the floor spotted with blood. There are too many victims...

'There's no space!'

And more shouting and gunshots, more moaning and groaning, more men dead.

These soldiers... they have families to go back to, lives to start living again. I'm just a country; I'm not as important. I need to move to make space for them...

'Ah, it's ok,' a voice says, 'stay where you are.' He pushes me softly down onto the bed. His hand paints blood onto my clothes.

I turn my head around. America smiles, his clothes, his face scratched and bloodied. He has a hand over his chest. I can tell he's covering a wound.

I need to move for him.

It's all white. And there's a constant beep in the background. A hospital? Oh, yeah, the motorbike accident... He had jumped in fromt of my motorbike. And my memories from war are resurfacing. It's all America's fault.

I slowly sit up despite the complaints from my aching body.

'You're awake!' America exclaims. His face lights up with a huge smile, and he seems extremely relieved. He has a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He really cares, doesn't he?

'Wait, don't try to sit up!' He places the flowers down and rushes over. With the same smile and the same amount of force as before, he pushes me down.

'Of course I'm ok,' I say, 'and you don't need to be so loud.'

'Haha, sorry,' he says. Then his smile is replaced. 'The doctors said that your arm is broken, and it could take more than a month to heal.' He places his hands on my right arm, the broken one. Then he smiles. 'So, for that period of time, I'll move in with you and take care of you!'

'Don't decide things by yourself!'

'So, I'll cook all your meals and go shopping for you and everything!'

'I said, don't go deciding things by yourself!'

'America! Not junk food again! At least make an effort to actually cook!' Spread out on the table is a variety of junk food.

'Haha, I couldn't be bothered cooking!' he says with a laugh.

'Fine,' I sigh, 'but next time, cook the meal, or I'm kicking you out.'

And so my life living with America started.