13 Colonies felt tears run down his face, his throat aching as he held in a sob. It felt scratchy and uncomfortable, and eventually he let it out and another stream of hot tears rolled down his cheeks. 13 slowly made his way down the dark hallway to his father's office. Walking was hard as with every move he made, he felt an extreme pain in between his thighs, he even felt drips of blood run down his legs and drip to the floor. His arms hurt as well, the bruises around his wrists stung as he hugged himself for some simple comfort.
13 Colonies limped towards the door and stood there for a moment, contemplating whether or not to tell his father, British Empire. He glanced up at the doorknob and reached for it, his wrist the color purple after being gripped so tightly for such a long period of time. His hand shook as he gripped the handle, but an overwhelming feeling of fear went over him.
What would happen to him if he told?
Would he get punished?
13 Colonies whimpered, feeling another trickle of blood run down his thighs. He was only wearing his button up shirt at the moment, his pants were lost somewhere, along with the rest of his undergarments. 13 Colonies sobbed again and let go of the doorknob. He was too scared to open it. He didn't even know what happened to him.
How could he tell his father what happened if he didn't even understand himself?
He sobbed louder and hugged himself tighter, leaning slightly over as he felt salty tears run down his cheek from his eyes. He felt so dirty. How could he let himself get there? Why didn't he do anything? What had he done wrong?
13 Colonies shakily let go of his chest and attempted to wipe his tears. His insides hurt so much, and his thighs ached. He wants British Empire to hear him and walk out and give him a hug. He wanted his father to notice his crying. But 13 Colonies was too scared to open the door, or to knock.
He felt another stream of blood run down his thighs and onto the floor. He glanced down, his tears dripping onto the wood flooring. He reached down and felt the blood, before breaking down into sobs again.
He heard the door open and a sudden gasp. 13 Colonies couldn't bring himself to look up at his father's reaction. He felt like he was going to fall down, he felt so weak. 13 wiped his tears away, but they continued to pour out of his eyes. The space in between his thighs hurt so much and it made him want to fall down, but he kept standing.
13 Colonies waited for the hug from his father, and for a few words. Maybe British Empire would tell him everything was going to be alright. Maybe he'd get an explanation on what was going on. His father might even find the man who had hurt him like this and made him pay.
13 Colonies let out another sob and brought himself to look up at his father's face. But once he saw his father's expression, all his hopes went down the drain. He immediately knew he wasn't going to get that hug, he wasn't going to be reassured that everything would be okay, and that man wasn't going to be found.
British Empire looked down at 13 Colonies with horror, fear, and disbelief. The blood down the middle of 13's legs had told him everything, and seeing the colony's face was too much. He had to look away and close the door. He couldn't deal with this.
–
America jerked awake, his heart racing and breaths coming in sharp gasps. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, his skin prickling with discomfort. The room felt stifling, suffocating, as memories flooded back with brutal clarity. He could almost taste the fear and desperation of that night.
Struggling against the rising panic, America sat up, his muscles tense and trembling. His gaze darted around the dimly lit room, seeking refuge from the haunting echoes of the past. Clutching the damp blankets to his chest, he fought to anchor himself in the present, to push back the relentless tide of memories threatening to engulf him.
With shaky hands, America reached for the remote control resting on the bedside table. Fumbling in his haste, he finally managed to grasp it and aimed it at the television opposite his bed. The screen flickered to life, casting an eerie glow across the room. Sounds and voices emanated from the TV, blending into a cacophony of noise that only added to his disorientation.
His vision blurred with unshed tears, America struggled to make sense of the images flashing before him. Faces and scenes morphed into indistinct shapes, the lines between reality and nightmare blurring in his exhausted mind. Yet, the distraction of the TV offered a fragile lifeline, a temporary reprieve from the suffocating weight of his memories.
America quickly wiped his face off, but his eyes remained blurry and his cheeks kept getting wet. Abandoning the futile attempt to dry his tears, America's trembling hand reached out, searching blindly on the cluttered dresser beside his bed. His fingers closed around a familiar object, the sharp edges biting into his palm, a painful reminder of reality amidst the chaos of emotions.
Bringing the sharp object back to his bed, America sank onto the mattress, his body trembling with unchecked sobs. His breathing was getting quicker. He felt like he was going to burst. Possibly explode.
His breaths hitched, coming in uneven bursts as he struggled to regain control. Tears continued to stream down his face, mingling with the sweat and leaving salty trails on his skin.
His breathing was now out of control, and his face was dripping with the water coming out of his eyes, and he could barely see a thing. It was all just a blurry mess.
America held the sharp object against his arm and pressed down. He felt his mind snap back to reality almost immediately as it felt the blade dig into his flesh. The American put it against his other arm and pressed down harder. His breathing slowed down and the tears slowed and America felt his vision come back. He blinked a few times and pulled the blade away from his arm. He felt a light trickle down his arm, a familiar feeling so he brought his arms onto the black sheets of his bed so he wouldn't feel it.
America's rapid breaths gradually slowed, the pounding in his chest easing as he regained some semblance of composure. Blinking away the remnants of tears, he surveyed his room, the dim light casting shadows that seemed to mirror the turmoil within him. The dampness on his face was drying, leaving behind a tingling sensation that reminded him of his vulnerability.
With a trembling hand, America lifted his arm and wiped away the remaining tears, his vision clearing as he did so. He blinked several times, trying to banish the lingering haze of distress that clouded his perception. His gaze shifted to the box cutter still clutched in his other hand.
His eyes trailed down his arm, where a thin trickle of blood escaped the shallow cut. Droplets stained the sheets, a vivid reminder of his impulsive action. America's breath caught in his throat as he watched the crimson drops, a mixture of regret and relief washing over him.
Without a second thought, he flung the blade across the room, its metallic clang against the floor punctuating the heavy silence. He buried his face in his pillow, clutching it tightly against his chest as if seeking solace from the storm raging within him. Each inhale was a struggle, but America fought to steady his breathing, to regain control
As he did, the sounds from the TV became more singled out and less all over the place. He could hear the voices, and figure out if either one or two people were talking at the same time, or what their topic was.
He made a conscious effort to tune in to the TV to divert his thoughts from the tumultuous whirlwind of emotions threatening to overwhelm him, but kept his face against the pillow, and he kept his stinging arms around the pillow in a hug.
He blocked out the dark thoughts that made him wonder his worth and made him question why he had to live through that traumatic experience. Why it had to be him.
But why did it?
Why did it have to be him?
Determined to distract himself, America refocused his attention on the TV, where the reporters' banter and cheesy jokes provided a stark contrast to the dark tumult of his thoughts. He forced himself to listen to their conversations, to follow the topics they discussed with a strained semblance of interest.
The news reporters' voices filled the room, their words mingling with the ambient noise of the television. America tried to immerse himself in their world, to find a temporary respite from his inner turmoil amidst the superficiality of media chatter.
"It's gonna be pretty sunny this week. What do you think about that, Gary?" The voice of the female reporter rang out from the TV, her tone carrying a chipper enthusiasm that clashed with America's somber mood. Despite not seeing her, America could paint a mental picture based on her voice alone. She sounded white, with a hint of artificiality that suggested a penchant for cosmetic enhancements. Blonde hair, cheek implants, possibly even breast implants, crossed his mind as he imagined her appearance. Her hair was likely bleached to perfection, straight and meticulously styled. The telltale signs of a spray-on tan and heavy makeup, including generous amounts of lip plumper, completed the mental image. Her smile, showcased with unnatural brightness, hinted at a dental enhancement that left her teeth unnaturally white and perfectly aligned.
"I think you're completely right! Either that, or we're both bonkers!" The male reporter's laughter followed, his voice carrying a more grounded tone compared to his counterpart. America envisioned him as the epitome of generic professionalism, with neatly combed hair to the side, a standard suit, and a friendly but unremarkable smile. His teeth were likely white but not to the exaggerated extent of the female reporter's, and he held a mug of coffee, adding a touch of relatability to his appearance. Unlike the female reporter's over-the-top persona, he exuded a more down-to-earth vibe, a "yes man" who played along with the lighthearted banter. This guy could probably talk for hours without even saying a word.
America tried to imagine these reporters in his mind, not dwell on the fact that he'd have to wear long sleeve dress shirts to the meeting he had today.
The meeting he had today…
His body tensed, and he jerked upright, scanning the room frantically for his clock. Time seemed to warp and distort as the urgency of the situation gripped him. Everything else faded into the background as he focused solely on the impending deadline.
Finally locating his clock, America's eyes locked onto the time display, relief flooding his senses as he noted that he still had an hour to prepare.
America laid back down at his back and stared at the ceiling. His breathing was completely back to normal, he wasn't thinking about the flashback dream he had. His mind went back to his arms and he slowly lifted his arms up and bent them so he could see the wounds. Both wounds had ceased bleeding, the crimson flow now reduced to dried streaks on his skin. The first wound, though not particularly deep, had left a visible mark, a reminder of the night's tumultuous emotions. America's gaze lingered on the scars, tracing their jagged edges with a detached curiosity. America breathed in slowly, and could make out a small whiff of a metallic smell. Like a copper smell.
America sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Clad only in his boxers and socks, he hesitated for a moment before standing up and crossing the room to the bathroom. Each step felt heavy, laden with the weight of exhaustion and emotional turmoil.
Upon reaching the bathroom, America's gaze shifted to the mirror above the sink. Red-rimmed eyes stared back at him, the telltale signs of sleepless nights and restless dreams etched in the puffiness around his eyes. He knew that once the puffiness subsided, his appearance would reflect the weariness that had settled deep within him.
With a sigh, America turned on the faucet, allowing cold water to cascade over his hands and splash onto his face. The shock of the cold water against his skin sent a shiver down his spine, his hair becoming damp and starting to drip onto the bathroom tiles. The sensation was a stark contrast to the warmth and stickiness he had felt moments ago.
As he continued to splash water onto his face, America couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that clung to him like a second skin.
America turned his attention to the wounds on his arms, the dried blood a stark reminder of earlier. With a sense of determination, he reached for the bar of soap and began to wash away the traces of crimson, his movements deliberate and focused.
After rinsing off the blood, America scanned the bathroom shelves until he located a tube of antibiotic ointment. Squeezing a small amount onto his fingertips, he gently applied it to the deeper cut, his touch careful and methodical. The soothing coolness of the ointment offered a brief respite from the discomfort.
Next, he reached for a box of bandages, selecting one to cover the deeper wound while leaving the shallower one exposed. The act of bandaging the cut felt like a ritual, as he had done this too many times.
With the bandage securely in place, America exhaled a sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. His gaze drifted towards his wardrobe.
–
America entered the meeting room, juggling a Monster drink and a coffee cup. He wore a loose long-sleeve dress shirt and black pants, his attire reflecting a casual yet professional demeanor. Navigating through the crowded room, he stepped over a colleague's leg to reach his seat, settling in with a sip of his energy drink.
As he took a moment to collect his thoughts, America's attention was drawn to Russia approaching him. Russia, clad in a short-sleeve dress shirt and black pants, had foregone his usual ushanka hat, likely due to the sweltering temperature in the building.
The cooler had malfunctioned the night before, leaving the room uncomfortably warm as nothing seemed to be working. America was relieved to hear that the UN was already arranging for someone to fix the issue promptly. The last thing anyone needed was to start feeling like they were cooking or risk overheating during the meeting.
Russia finally reached America's side and raised an eyebrow at America's choice of long sleeves. "What's with the-" he began, only to be cut off by America's quick response.
"I got you a coffee," America interjected, adjusting his sunglasses. His constant wearing of sunglasses served multiple purposes, primarily to hide his eyes but also as an added benefit to conceal the bags under his eyes this morning. He handed the Russian the coffee cup and took another sip from his own drink.
Russia accepted the coffee, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip and nodded in acknowledgment. "Fine, but I'm not going to-" he started, only to be interrupted once more by America.
"Next time I'll get you something to eat," America interjected again, deflecting any further discussion about his choice of attire. He was adamant about not delving into the reasons behind wearing long sleeves in public or just at all.
As Russia sipped his coffee again, he sighed audibly. "Иисус…" he muttered under his breath, then glanced down at America. "Will you get me whatever I want to eat?"
America nodded absentmindedly, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
There was a moment of silence before Russia sat down on the desk. "Ладно, я не буду об этом говорить…" he conceded, causing America to visibly relax and let out a sigh of relief. "If you get me whatever I want to eat down in the cafeteria."
"You got it," America agreed, sealing the deal.
Russia took another sip of his coffee, then glanced around the room and began fanning his face. "Is it always this hot in Florida?" he asked, expressing his discomfort with the warmth.
The meeting was taking place in one of the buildings designated for countryhumans in Florida. Each country had at least one such building for gatherings like this, and this particular one was among the many buildings that America had within his country.
America leaned back in his chair, a hint of amusement in his expression. "In the summer, yeah. Too hot for ya?" he quipped, raising an eyebrow in jest.
Russia didn't hesitate to nod in agreement. "Definitely. This is unnatural," he remarked, clearly feeling the heat's intensity.
America smirked in response, but his attention shifted when the door suddenly opened. He quickly straightened up in his chair, adopting a guarded composure out of instinct.
Britain entered the room with a purposeful stride, making his way to his seat without sparing a glance at America. He sat down without acknowledging his son's presence, as if pretending that America wasn't seated just a few seats away. Britain's attire was typical of his formal style, consisting of a white dress shirt, black pants, and a neatly tied tie.
Russia's gaze shifted between Britain and America before he slid off the table and approached America. "When you get me what I want to eat, are you gonna get yourself something to eat?" he inquired, attempting to steer America's focus away from Britain's apparent indifference.
"Uh..." America's gaze remained fixed on Britain, who seemed intent on ignoring him. A subtle tension crept into his breathing, a silent acknowledgment of the strained relationship between them.
13 Colonies sat on his bed, his young frame tense and hunched over as one of the maids delicately wiped the dried blood off his thighs. The room was filled with a palpable tension, broken only by the soft sounds of the maid's movements and colonies' stifled sniffles.
He tried to wipe away the tears streaming down his cheeks, his eyes red and puffy from crying. Each swipe of the warm cloth across his skin made him flinch, a sharp sting cutting through the numbness that enveloped him. It wasn't the physical pain that bothered him the most; it was the emotional turmoil that weighed heavily on his young shoulders.
The memories of what had transpired earlier still lingered, haunting his thoughts and clouding his mind with confusion and fear. He couldn't understand why things had escalated to this point, why he had to endure such anguish and suffering.
Despite the discomfort and pain, 13 Colonies remained silent, his gaze fixed on the maid's actions as she cleaned the wounds.
In the midst of his discomfort, the colony glanced towards the door where his father, the British Empire, stood. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier as the father's presence loomed over them. However, British Empire didn't meet his son's gaze; in fact, he hadn't looked at 13 Colonies since the young colony had appeared at his office door. Not even once.
British Empire's expression was agitated, his features twisted with a mixture of frustration and concern. The sight made 13 Colonies wonder if he had somehow done something wrong, a fear that added to the turmoil already brewing within him.
"Papa?" 13 Colonies called out, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation. He winced slightly as the maid continued to wipe at his legs, the stinging sensation a painful reminder of his vulnerability in that moment.
British Empire closed his eyes, a gesture that seemed to distance him even further from the situation. His avoidance of eye contact with his son only deepened the sense of unease in the room.
Feeling the weight of his father's emotional withdrawal, 13 Colonies let his hand drop to his side. His gaze shifted away from British Empire and landed on the maid, whose eyes were now watery with unspoken emotions. A pang of guilt gnawed at 13 Colonies' conscience as he realized the distress he was inadvertently causing the maid.
He felt a wave of sickness wash over him, a mix of guilt and uncertainty swirling in his gut. He didn't want the maids to be sad; it wasn't their fault that he was in this situation. In fact, he wasn't even sure if it was entirely the fault of the man who had caused his injuries.
America blinked in surprise when Russia tapped his forehead, breaking him out of his reverie. His breathing slowed, and he felt himself calm down a bit. He turned his head to look at the Russian, a puzzled expression on his face. "Huh?"
Russia's expression was a mix of curiosity and concern as he observed America. "You were staring at ghosts, again," he remarked, his hands tucked into his pockets.
There was a moment of silence as America processed Russia's words. He straightened up in his seat, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "Oh, yes... uh, sorry," he apologized, realizing that his mind had wandered into familiar memories once more.
Russia nodded slowly, understanding America's response. "Uh huh... well, I was asking before you went to space if you were gonna get yourself something to eat while you were getting me something."
America paused to consider Russia's question. Despite the topic of food being brought up, he didn't feel particularly hungry. In fact, a wave of nausea washed over him, making the idea of eating unappealing. "Uh, no. I'll be good. I'll just get you something after this meeting," he replied, opting to focus on taking care of Russia's needs first before tending to his own.
Russia blinked in response to America's decision, then shrugged nonchalantly. "Eh, you'll change your mind after this meeting is over. It's gonna take forever, and you'll get hungry," he predicted, based on past experiences of lengthy meetings.
America let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting once more towards Britain. His attention was drawn to Canada, who had approached the UK and was engaged in a friendly conversation. Both were smiling genuinely, their interaction devoid of any pretense or forced politeness. A peculiar sensation stirred in America's stomach as he observed the easy camaraderie between Britain and Canada. It was an unfamiliar feeling, a mix of longing and envy, as he realized that their relationship was genuine and unstrained.
The naturalness of the interaction between Britain and Canada stirred a mix of emotions in America, leaving him feeling increasingly lonely and undeniably jealous. Thoughts raced through his mind as he observed the effortless rapport between the two, wondering why such warmth and openness had been absent in his own past interactions with Britain when he was younger.
Russia, sensing America's shift in mood, shuffled uncomfortably before attempting to change the subject. "Америка, did you hear the news this morning?" he asked, clearly trying to divert America's attention away from his introspective thoughts.
America glanced back at Russia, nodding slowly in acknowledgment. "Just the weather news," he replied casually, aware of Russia's attempt to distract him. Despite the distraction not fully taking effect, America couldn't deny a sense of gratitude for Russia's effort. "Why?" he asked, prompting Russia to continue the conversation.
–
After five grueling hours of listening to the United Nations and other organizations reiterate things America had heard countless times before, the meeting finally concluded. The repetitive discussions left America feeling exasperated, as if he wanted to blow his head off just to escape the monotony. The sweltering heat only added to his discomfort, making the experience even more unbearable.
The American had already purchased something for Russia to eat, ensuring his promise made during the meeting was fulfilled. Now, as he prepared to leave the building and head home, he walked towards the building's glass windows with the intention of pushing them open. However, as he reached for the windows, a sudden recollection stopped him in his tracks.
As America contemplated leaving the meeting and returning home, a wave of apprehension washed over him. The prospect of being alone with his thoughts, especially his troubled and self-destructive tendencies, filled him with dread. He knew all too well the dangers of his own mind, how it could torment him endlessly, trapping him in a relentless cycle of negativity.
If he went home now, he realized, he would be stuck in that loop until the next morning. The solitude would only amplify his inner turmoil, making it harder to escape the clutches of his own thoughts.
America's realization about the potential consequences of going home too soon prompted him to step back from the door and retrace his steps into the building. He couldn't believe he had considered leaving so abruptly.
Returning to the small cafeteria, he found Russia still eating. Without a word, America walked over to where the Russian was seated and slumped into a nearby chair, leaning back with a sense of relief at not having acted on his initial impulse to leave.
Russia paused mid-bite, raising an eyebrow as he observed America's return. His gaze followed America as he settled into the chair, a silent question lingering in his eyes. If his mouth wasn't full, he might have voiced his curiosity about America's sudden return.
Noticing Russia's unspoken query, America shifted in his chair before offering an explanation. "Didn't want to go home," he stated simply, knowing that Russia was likely going to ask him about it anyway. The relief of not being alone with his thoughts outweighed any discomfort he might feel in explaining himself.
Russia nodded in understanding and returned his attention to finishing the food that America had promised to buy him before the meeting. As he ate, America watched him with a sense of satisfaction at fulfilling his commitment.
Suddenly, a pair of arms grabbed America's shoulders, causing him to almost jump out of his skin. He quickly switched around in his chair, his shoulders still raised in a defensive reflex.
Mexico stood behind America with a smirk on his lips, greeting him with a casual "Wassup, America?" He then settled into one of the seats beside America and Russia, his gaze alternating between watching Russia eat and looking at America.
America's initial tension eased as he leaned back in his chair, shooting a playful glare at Mexico. "Fine, aside from the heart attack you gave me," he grumbled with a hint of amusement, crossing his arms defensively.
Mexico chuckled at America's reaction. "Don't be grumpy," he teased before shifting his attention to Russia. "Whatcha eatin'?" he inquired, curious about the Russian's meal.
Russia swallowed his food and wiped his mouth with his arm before responding, "A burrito..." He cleared his throat, indicating his meal choice.
Mexico leaned in with interest. "Ooh, lemme have some," he exclaimed, reaching for the burrito.
However, Russia leaned back, glaring at Mexico and pulling his food away protectively. "Нет," he growled in Russian, refusing to share his meal.
Suddenly, Chile approached Mexico and playfully tugged at his hair. Mexico flinched, letting out an "OW!" and instinctively smacked Chile's hand away. Chile chuckled mischievously and took a step back, leaving Mexico slightly startled.
America couldn't help but chuckle lightly at the playful exchange, observing as Chile quickly sped off before Mexico could fully recover.
Mexico, now recovered from the hair tug, watched as Chile ran off and jokingly flipped him off, calling him an "ASSHOLE!" in jest. Despite the initial shock, Mexico chuckled and turned back to America and Russia. "That guy's funny," he remarked with a grin.
America rolled his eyes, though the gesture was concealed by his sunglasses, and then he tipped his chair back slightly to get more comfortable.
Mexico noticed America's subtle shift and leaned back in his seat, shooting a concerned glance at him. "You good?" he asked, sensing America's discomfort.
America nodded, exhaling a sigh. The rising temperature in the room was starting to bother him, or perhaps he was feeling a bit claustrophobic. "Yeah... just hot. When are they gonna get that fixed?" he wondered aloud, referring to the ongoing issue with the room's temperature.
The chair Mexico was in also tipped back slightly in response. "Dunno, is it really that hot?" he asked, curious about America's discomfort.
Russia nodded in agreement as he finished his food. "Yup," he confirmed, covering his mouth as he spoke, still chewing.
Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, America leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, his breathing momentarily hitching before calming down. The desire to leave and escape the stifling atmosphere grew stronger with each passing moment.
Finally, America glanced at the two and scooted his chair out from the table, standing up. "I'm gonna go home," he announced, his tone indicating his decision to leave the building.
Mexico nodded in acknowledgment of America's decision to leave, but before America could depart, Mexico quickly interjected, "Can I have ten bucks?"
America rolled his eyes good-naturedly, fishing out his wallet and searching for cash. After a moment, he found a $20 bill. "Your lucky day, Mexico," he remarked with a smirk, handing the money to Mexico.
Mexico chuckled at America's generosity and glanced at Russia. "I could get me 4 burritos now," he teased, amused by the unexpected windfall.
Russia rolled his eyes at Mexico's comment but before he could respond, a few South American countries approached their table, diverting his attention.
Taking the opportunity to leave, America bid farewell to the group and walked out of the room. He pushed open the glass doors, not dwelling on the challenges awaiting him at home, at least for the moment.
America walked over to his car and slid into the driver's seat, only to be met with a blast of scorching heat that made him hiss in frustration. "Well, fuck!" he exclaimed, jumping out of the car and standing beside it for a moment to cool off.
After a brief pause, he cautiously slipped back into the car, being mindful not to touch the metal part of the seat belt that had become unbearably hot. As he settled back into the driver's seat, the oppressive heat of the car began to take its toll on him, making him feel uncomfortably confined in the small space.
Feeling increasingly restless, America huffed and shifted in his seat, his discomfort growing. He quickly turned on the air conditioner to try and alleviate some of the heat. Then, he rummaged through his car in search of his anxiety pills, hoping that the extra pill bottle was still in the car.
After a minute of searching, America finally found the pill bottle and deftly opened the cap. He retrieved a pill and held it in his hand for a moment, glancing around the car in search of a water bottle. However, he quickly realized that even if there was one, the water inside would likely be too hot to drink.
With a resigned sigh, America decided to forgo the water and simply popped the pills into his mouth, swallowing them dry. He leaned back in his seat, hoping that the medication would soon take effect and ease his rising anxiety.
America started the car and began the drive back to his home, hoping that the pills he had taken would soon start to take effect. However, after about 10 minutes of driving and still feeling no relief from his anxiety, he grew increasingly frustrated. In a moment of desperation, he grabbed the pill bottle again and took out a few more pills, swallowing them in the hopes that the increased dosage would work more quickly to calm his nerves.
–
America arrived home feeling a wave of hunger that made him feel sick. Realizing that he hadn't eaten anything all day, and it was already 3 PM, he couldn't help but wonder if he had eaten anything the previous day either. The combination of stress, anxiety, and neglecting his basic needs left him feeling physically and emotionally drained.
America opened the front door and tossed his work bag to the side, feeling a sense of relief to be home. He walked into the main room and grabbed the TV remote, quickly turning on the TV for some background noise. After tossing the remote onto the couch, he made his way to the kitchen.
Preferring a dimly lit environment, America kept the lights off and the blinds down. He found the unnecessary brightness of lights to be annoying, especially when he could see perfectly well without them at the moment.
The room was bathed in a murky, yellowish-brown lighting from the closed blinds and tinted windows, casting an almost dirty hue on the sun's rays filtering through.
America opened his fridge, scanning for something to quell his hunger. He grabbed a loaf of bread and a cube of butter, then walked over to the toaster. Placing a slice of bread into the toaster, he waited patiently for it to pop up, ensuring both sides were evenly toasted. Once the toast was ready, America spread a generous amount of butter onto one side.
America took a bite of the toast, but as soon as the flavors hit his tongue, he grimaced and set the toast down. Walking over to the sink, he let the bite drop into the basin and began to spit out all the food from his mouth. His stomach twisted with hunger, yet the discomfort made him feel nauseous. The sensation of sickness overwhelmed him, leaving him feeling unwell and unable to eat.
After washing his mouth out and drying it off, America glanced at the uneaten slice of toast, feeling his stomach twist once more at the thought of food. He quickly averted his gaze and turned towards the TV, hoping to distract himself from his queasy stomach. Sighing heavily, he made the decision to start a shower, hoping that the warm water would help alleviate some of his discomfort.
America walked over to the bathroom and turned on the water, adjusting it until it reached a comfortable temperature. As he waited for the water to heat up, he took a moment to glance at the fresh bandage on his arm from that morning, noting the other, less severe marking nearby. With a heavy sigh, he stepped into the warm water, feeling its soothing embrace on his skin. Grabbing a bar of soap, he began to lather up, allowing the warm water to wash away the tension and stress of the day. Closing his eyes, he let himself relax, finding solace in the comforting sensation of the shower.
As America lathered his hands with the soapy bar of soap, he began to scrub himself gently, the warm water cascading down his body. His hands traced over the scar on his neck, a reminder of the struggles he endured during the Great Depression. It was a scar he never spoke of or explained to anyone, but its origins were clear to those who saw it. Despite its significance, America kept silent about it, preferring to let the past remain in the shadows as he focused on the present.
America continued to wash himself in the shower, moving his soapy hands over his shoulders where a few burn marks from past wars were still visible. As he traced the scars, his mind briefly wandered to the battles and conflicts that had left their marks on him. Moving down his arms, he felt the soap running over the many scars that lined his skin, each perfectly lining down his arm. He never spoke of these, and he never felt very comfortable having others see them.
As he reached his chest and stomach, America's mind went blank, his breath hitching and he held his breath.
13 Colonies sat in his bedroom, messing around with one of his wooden toys. He had been grounded to his room by his father a few moments ago by accidentally breaking one of the glass bottles that was in the British Empire's office. He had told his father he had felt bad and was sorry, but was still forced to stay in his room for the rest of the day with a bodyguard at the door to make sure he didn't leave.
13 Colonies was currently pretending his wooden toy was at war with all his other figures, making it drastically unfair to the other toys. He smiled as he played, throwing one of the 'dead' toys to the other side of his room.
He quickly looked up when his door creeped open, noticing it was the bodyguard. He waved shyly. The bodyguard smiled softly and closed the door behind him. "Hello, 13 Colonies."
13 Colonies shyly looked away, gripping one of his toys tightly. "Good evening, sir." he said politely.
The bodyguard chuckled and walked over quietly. "No need to call me sir, you can call me Maxwell." the guard said, standing in front of the colony. "May I sit down?"
13 nodded, patted the bed area beside him. "Mhmm." he hummed and messed with the wooden figure in his hand.
William sat down and set his hands on his lap. "What were you playing?" he asked.
13 Colonies showed the guard his toy. "This princess is killing all the enemies," he explained.
"Princess?" William raised an eyebrow.
13 Colonies was silent, then nodded. "Yes? I said princess, didn't i?"
The corners of William's mouth turned up. "Sorry, I just find that hard to believe. A princess doesn't fight."
"This one does. She killed all those criminals." 13 Colonies pointed towards the pile of toys that were thrown in the corner of his room.
William was silent for a moment, his hand wandering to 13's shoulder. "You have a strange imagination."
13 Colonies glanced at the hand on his shoulder, then at the guard. "I'm sorry for being rude and upfront, but why did you come into my room?"
William glanced down at 13. "I thought I could watch over you better in here. You might sneak out your window."
13 raised an eyebrow. "I can't even reach it. I'm only 8 years old, I'm not tall enough."
William shivered and patted 13 Colonies' thigh. "I know, just made me a little worried you might try it."
13 colonies glanced down at the hand now on his leg. He was a little confused by the touching, but he didn't do anything. This was probably just the guard being nice. "Do you want to play with me?" 13 Colonies held up one of the toys, then cocked his head to the side. "You'd be bored just watching me. Why'd you come in if you knew you'd be bored?"
The bodyguard was silent for a moment, looking away and slightly squeezing 13 colonies' thighs. "I…" he glanced back at the colony. "Just liked your smile and upbeat attitude. It's interesting how happy you are even though your father doesn't pay much attention to you."
13 colonies was silent for a second, then looked down at the side of his bed. "My father is just busy with work, he does pay attention to me." 13 nodded with a smile and looked back up at William.
William's face tinged with red and his hand went up closer to 13's colonies crotch. 13 squirmed a bit. "You're so bloody cute, y'know." the guard leaned closer.
13 colonies was silent and leaned back, "I… can you not touch me?" he asked politely.
America blinked a few times, shaking himself out of the memories that had momentarily consumed him. He became aware that he was unconsciously rubbing circles and creating large soap suds on his thigh, precisely where he had been touched by the guard years ago. A shiver ran down America's back as the vivid recollection sent a wave of discomfort through him. Hastily, he dropped the soap, rinsed off, and turned off the water before jumping out of the shower to dry off.
After drying off, America walked to his bedroom and put on a fresh pair of socks and underwear. Feeling the exhaustion from the day weighing on him, he decided to give himself a much-needed break from reality. With that in mind, he crawled into bed and allowed himself to drift off into a nap, seeking a temporary respite from the thoughts and emotions that had been swirling in his mind.
–
13 Colonies scooted away from the bodyguard, Maxwell, and said, "Sir… please." He grabbed the guard's wrist to pull the hand away from his crotch.
Maxwell didn't move for a minute, just looking at the much smaller hand of the countryhumans that was wrapped around his own wrist. He was silent then chuckled. "Keep your voice down, child. Your father is busy, he's having a meeting with the personification of the Russian Empire."
The colonie frowned, shifting away from the guard. "Sorry," he whispered. "Just-"
The guard swiftly pulled his hand away from the child and stood up. "Good boy." he smirked, looking down at 13 Colonies. "Hey, I have an idea on what we can play."
13 Colonies, even though he was extremely uncomfortable with what just happened, brightened up slightly at the suggestion. "What is it?"
Maxwell leaned forward slightly, leaning down to get the colony's height. "Close your eyes and keep your voice down, then do what I say." the corners of his mouth lifted up even more.
13 Colonies were silent for a moment, looking to the side. He thought over it, thinking it wasn't much of a game, but if the guard had suggested it, it must be fun. Afterall, the bodyguard was older and bigger than him, so he must be a lot wiser. And it was his guard, guards don't hurt who they protect, it was common sense.
The young countryhumans nodded. "Sure." he moved his hands to his lap and closed his eyes.
Maxwell didn't do anything for a minute. "Start off with raising your hands in the air."
13 Colonies slowly raised his arms in the air, not thinking about it much since it wouldn't cause him harm and it was just a game.
The bodyguard stepped closer, reaching over and grabbing the colony's wrists tightly with one hand and swiftly pinning the kid's hands to the bed. 13 Colonies gasped in shock and his eyes opened. Maxwell frowned when the 8 year old opened his eyes. "You're breaking the rules, keep your eyes closed." he said, his voice calm but demanding.
13 Colonies felt that uncomfortableness immediately surge back to him. But he slowly closed his eyes, fear of disobeying.
Maxwell nodded, "Good boy." he lured and used his other hand to grip the child's pants.
13 Colonies quivered at the cold touch, feeling a pit in his stomach. "What are you doing, sir?" he asked, his voice shaking.
The bodyguard hissed in annoyance, tugging the young personification of the colony's pants down to their knees. "I'm gonna add a new rule, you can't ask questions. It ruins the surprise of the game." he sounded more annoyed.
13 Colonies went silent, swallowing his questions. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." he replied quickly.
Maxwell nodded, tugging at the kid's pants completely, then grabbing the undergarments. 13 Colonies felt the pit in his stomach start to make him nauseous, but he didn't say anything. This was a game. It was going to be fun. His guard didn't mean to make him uncomfortable.
The colony's undergarments were slipped off, leaving the child half naked. 13 Colonies tried to tug his arms away, but the guard's grip on his wrists were a lot stronger and kept his hands pinned to the mattress.
Maxwell examined the childs underhalf for a moment, then chuckled and leaned over the colony, looking down at the kid's face. "Open your eyes."
13 colonies winced and slowly opened one of his eyes to peer up at the guard. He kept his knees pressed against each other, a growing fear of the 'game' he was being forced to play. "Can you stop? I don't wanna-"
The guard's hand quickly wrapped around 13 Colonies' throats, choking the child. "Shut up kid, you're doing so well. Stop fighting it." the bodyguard hissed, his smile disappearing. "And you're gonna get your dad's attention. He's working real hard for you, y'know. Does a little kid like you want to get their father mad?"
13 Colonies choked for a minute, gasping for air. Tears pricked in the colony's eyes and few rolled out and into his hair. He whimpered and shook his head in the slightest. He attempted to pull his hands away, but once he figured he couldn't he started to kick.
Maxwell growled and let go of the colony's wrists and pushed 13 Colonies legs down. "Stop moving or else I'll make this hurt," he threatened.
Immediately 13 stopped kicking, tears spilling out of his eyes. He could barely breathe, "S-stop!" he was able to whimper out.
A red hue grew on the older man's face, "Stop… talking." the guard hissed, his grip on the colony's throat tightened, causing the child to let out a strangled gasp.
America gasped awake, sweat beading down his face, his heart racing in panic. Desperately, he wiped his face off, trying to regain his composure. The room was dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of the TV in the background. His phone buzzed incessantly, the sound echoing in his ears and amplifying his anxiety to unbearable levels.
Feeling overwhelmed, America's breathing hitched, his hand instinctively going through his hair as he tried to ground himself in the present moment. The remnants of the nightmare lingered in his mind, leaving him feeling disoriented and shaken.
Where the fuck was he?
America's chest raised and fell rapidly as his breathing hitched, causing his panic to rise. The noises from the TV and phone were starting to overwhelm him and he scooted back, his back hitting the wall behind his bed. His breathing rate skyrocketed. His stimuli was being bombarded with feelings and sounds and his chest was feeling like it was being squeezed. America squeezed his eyes shut tightly, clasping his hands over his ears to block the sounds, but they went straight through and straight to his head.
He shakily turned his head, fighting the urge to scream and overpower the sounds and stared at his phone light up as texts and notifications filled it.
Why the fuck was it so loud?
America leaped forward and grabbed his phone, turning it around so he could turn it on silent but once he saw the screen and all the notifications and texts he lost control and ended up throwing it to the other side of the room. His hands were shaking and they quickly went to his hair again, pulling at it and tugging a few times. The pain calmed him and definitely was welcomed.
Just as he started to come and the sounds were getting quieter, he heard gunfire. From the TV. But it was enough to cause him to spiral again.
America fell out of his bed and shakily stepped out of his room and stumbled to the kitchen. He desperately started to go through the cupboards for his pills. He flinched when he heard the TV again. He knew it was probably just a news video of a shooting or something, but it sounded like someone was actually in his home and shooting real bullets at him.
Eventually America found his anxiety pills and quickly popped open the bottle and emptied the pills into his hand. Most fell from his grasp, but there were around 4 in his hand so he immediately brought them to his mouth and swallowed them dry. America felt gravity and panic drop him to his knees and back away into the corner of the kitchen. He felt sweat dripping down his body as he waited for the pills to kick in.
13 Colonies grabbed the guard's arm, screaming out and wasting most of his oxygen. His breath hitchen and tears filled his eyes again. He felt things start to go blurry. Everything below his waist was numb and aching. He could barely see Maxwell, and he wasn't sure what the bodyguard was doing. But it hurt. It hurt a lot. He sobbed louder, but it was strained because of the large hand fastened over his throat. He gasped for air again and choked for a minute, his eyes rolling back for a second, then he felt something rip open his insides and he let out another ear piercing scream. Tears poured from his eyes when he closed his eyes tightly out of pain. Panic took over him and his small hands gripped tighter on Maxwell's wrist.
America hugged himself, tears streaming down his face and he shook his head to rid of the memory. "God… God… God…" he mumbled shakily and closed his eyes tightly, his hands going to the side of his head and grabbing at his short hair. "It's alright…" he forcibly said, trying to block the thoughts out. "The pills are gonna kick in soon." his breathing was starting to get out of control. "It'll go away."
America centered attention on the pain on his scalp. Thoughts raced across his mind in a desperate attempt to distract himself, then he remembered something and his eyes opened and widened.
A few months ago he had Mexico, Brazil, and Jamaica over and Jamaica and had left tons of shit over. Mostly drugs.
America almost stopped breathing when he remembered that. He quickly stood up and ran to the garage, where he immediately started to dig through a certain box and through bags. He opened one and pulled out an already rolled up and prepared joint.
His hands were still shaking from panic and the silence of the garage was starting to freak him out, but grabbed a stray lighter from the box and lit the joint and took a drag from it and puffed. America leaned against the garage wall, shivering from the feeling. He took another few puffs and after a minute or so, his nerves slowly cooled down.
America sighed and slowly walked back into his house and looked around. He puffed out some smoke, sighing with the soothing feeling of finally being able to breathe. He looked down at himself and then walked into his room to change.
Once he did, he walked into the living room and turned the volume to the TV down, exhaling with relief. America then remembered his phone and frowned, he walked back into his room, sticking the joint into the mouth as he searched for it. Once he did he looked for any scratches on the phone's surface or any cracks. Luckily there wasn't and he turned the phone on.
He glanced at the notifications and sighed with relief when he realized that most of the texts were from either Russia or a groupchat with the south american countries. Not work or his government. He noticed all the missed calls were from Russia, and he raised an eyebrow.
He and Russia had worked out their differences about a decade after the Cold War, and had eventually been able to become ish-friends. But America was a little surprised that the Russian was inclined enough to call him… and so many times.
America went to call the Russian again when he heard a knock at the door. He stiffened and turned around, walked out of his room, and glanced over at his front door.
America gently rubbed the fluffy dog's head, a soft smile gracing his lips as he enjoyed the comforting presence of the canine. Meanwhile, Russia moved around in America's house, glancing around curiously before letting out a sudden sneeze. "Jesus, what's with the joint?" he asked, his gaze shifting to the American.
Without missing a beat, America continued to scratch the dog's neck, eliciting a contented wag of the pup's tail. "Just to chill," he replied casually, his tone relaxed as he brushed off the mention of the joint. He wasn't in the mood to delve into discussions about his recent emotional struggles.
Russia had just arrived at America's home, bringing along his pet dog—the same one that America had gifted to the Russian as a Christmas present a few years ago.
The dog leaned its head against America's hand, its tail wagging happily as America continued to pet it. Glancing up at Russia, America raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing here anyways?" he inquired, curious about the unexpected visit.
Russia shrugged, his hands tucked into his jeans pockets. "You didn't really answer my calls, so I got semi-worried," he explained, his expression a mix of concern and mild annoyance.
America rolled his eyes, understanding Russia's concern. "Well, I bet, but why'd you call?" he pressed, wanting to get to the point of Russia's visit.
Russia met America's gaze squarely. "Let's say you startled everyone at the table when you left so suddenly," he replied. "Peru thought you didn't want to see them."
America frowned slightly, standing up and slipping his hands into his own pockets. "Didn't mean to do any of that. Just got hot and missed the coolness of my house," he explained, offering a small smile in an attempt to ease the tension. Russia raised his eyebrows slowly, his expression reflecting a mix of curiosity and understanding. America glanced down at the dog, a playful glint in his eyes. "Did you seriously take her all the way from your country to here just for the meeting?" he asked, amused at the idea of Russia bringing his dog along for what seemed like a simple visit.
The Russian turned around and casually strolled into America's kitchen, shrugging nonchalantly. He began rummaging through America's fridge, seemingly unperturbed by the intrusion. "Who would I leave her with? Plus, the company is nice," Russia explained, his tone matter-of-fact as he defended his decision to bring his dog along.
America pondered Russia's response for a moment, then made his way to the table and settled into one of the chairs with a long sigh. "Dogs are cool, I get it," he remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"If you like them so much, why don't you have one?" Russia asked curiously as he pulled out a loaf of bread from America's fridge, his attention now shifting to food preparation. The dog trailed behind him, drawing America's curious gaze.
America leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its rear legs. "I move around a lot. Mostly my government that makes me do that," he explained, his tone tinged with a hint of resignation at the logistical challenges of pet ownership given his lifestyle.
Russia nodded in understanding, opening the bread bag and scanning the kitchen for ingredients. "Really? Why?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued as he glanced back at America, awaiting an explanation for America's frequent relocations.
America leaned forward in his seat, a hint of frustration evident in his voice. "Biden is an idiot. I need to be there to help with his decisions so he doesn't make too stupid decisions," he explained, emphasizing the challenges he faced due to the political landscape.
Russia chuckled softly as he assembled sandwiches for both of them. "Ah, Biden... that nut," he remarked with a nod of agreement, handing America one of the sandwiches before settling into a chair and beginning to eat his own. The dog sat nearby, looking expectantly at the two humans, hoping for a treat.
America accepted the sandwich with a grateful smile. "Thanks. Yeah, Biden does get a bit of a handful. I'm almost scared for the next election," he admitted with a sigh, taking a cautious bite and hoping it would sit well with his stomach.
Russia chuckled between bites of his own sandwich. "I hope Biden gets elected again," he quipped, prompting America to roll his eyes good-naturedly.
"Oh, shut up," America retorted playfully. As he was about to take another bite, Russia's dog rested its head on his lap, casting irresistible puppy eyes, likely anticipating some table scraps. America chuckled at the dog's antics and exchanged a smirk with Russia.
Russia's face turned slightly red as he glanced between America and his dog, Alexei. "Алексей," he hissed, using the dog's full name in a scolding tone, feeling a bit embarrassed by the dog's behavior.
America couldn't help but snicker at the situation. "Heh, looks like someone feeds their dog scraps from the table," he teased, playfully poking fun at Russia.
"That's not true," Russia huffed defensively, attempting to call the dog over again while trying to maintain some semblance of authority.
Meanwhile, America continued to pet Alexei's head, enjoying the playful banter with Russia.