Bad Dreams

~Part 2~

America’s eyes opened lazily and he yawned, “Finally it’s morning,”

He frowned as he felt shaking, and sat up, turning to look at Britain, who was leaning against the arm of the couch, clawing into his own arm. His eyes were pinched, his teeth were clenched, and his face was white in shock and fear. Weak whimpers escaped his lips and he was shaking uncontrollably.

“Iggy?! Wake up dude!” America shook him and he shot up, covering his mouth to keep from screaming.

Britain’s eyes dashed around madly, and he let out a sigh as he settled down, dropping his hand to his lap.

“Arthur? Are you okay?”

Britain looked to America in shock, “I…..forgot you were here,” he said, his voice weak.

America frowned in worry. He lifted is hand and pushed Britain’s bangs away from his eyes, “Are you okay? You looked like you were having a nightmare,”

Britain shook his head, “I’m fine,”

“Fuck, your arm!” America gasped.

Britain lifted his left arm, which had four long and deep gashes which were bleeding slowly. His eyes widened in shock, “Again?”

“What do you mean again?! Wait here,” America jumped up and ran into the bathroom, grabbing gauze and a wet towel. He sat back down beside Britain.

“Here, let me see,”

Britain silently watched as America cleaned the cuts and wrapped his arm.

“You were clawing yourself,” America said.

“I was?” Britain asked, shocked.

“Yea,” America said, pinning the gauze in place, “Must’ve been a really scary dream,”

“Y-yea. I-I’m fine now though,” Britain said.

“Are you sure?”

Britain nodded and stood up, walking towards the kitchen, “You can leave now. I have some work to finish,”

America stood up too, “If you’re okay-,”

“I’m fine,”

“Alright,” America said, grabbing the movies, “Oh, was it the movies that gave you bad dreams?”

Britain didn’t turn to look at America, “Yea…….sure……that’s why,”

He forced a smile and looked at America, “I’ll see you in two days at the meeting then,”

“Okay, bye!” America grinned and walked out the door.

Britain started shaking and he leaned against the counter, tears finding their way down his face. He clutched his chest as he gasped for breath, “A-again,”

He clenched his eyes closed as tears fell down his face, “Dammit, even with someone here. Why won’t they stop?”

He rubbed his eyes and stood forward, “What do I do? I have no energy or strength. I’m tired. Dammit,”

He fell on the couch and buried his face in one of the pillows, “Someone help,”

After several hours of crying, Britain forced himself to stand, and he dragged all of the blankets and pillows back up to his room, then walked back downstairs. That night he walked around his house, talking to himself and rubbing his arm.

“I need help. I know I need help. Who can I call? America’s an idiot, I can’t call him. The scratches. I did it to myself,” he started shaking more, “Obviously, I obviously did it to myself. Oh god, why?”