Might rename it, my book of mistakes. Because many of these are mistakes.
I think it's pretty evident. But, mostly I torture America/Alfred in any way I see fit that doesn't spoil my other stories too much and maybe throw in the other countries into...
Warning- Era appropriate racism and slavery, slight depictions of gore, self-hatred, self-harm, depression. Just...depression. On point hurt comfort story-
A mob of angry people surrounded one central point, it was invisible to the bystanders. People hurried by, not wanting to know what was happening.
The crowd clears, and in the middle was the body of a boy no older than six. His body covered with bruises as he lay in a puddle of his own blood. He was dead, eyes open in terror as the last tears sunk into the deathly skin. Another thing to note where a pair of eagle wings attached to his back, broken at odd angles, torn/missing feathers, and tarred at points in a sick version of tarring and feathering.
He started breathing again, and slowly his body came back to life. Wounds began to stitch up, and bruises began to heal. The child gently alines his wings as they heal, wanting them to heal right.
He then crawls his way to a nearby alleyway where he proceeds to cry again, in a small ball. His wings wrapped around him protectively, The bones newly healed.
"Alfred!" A voice called in the distance, the boy didn't respond. Burying his fingers into his legs as he sobbed silently.
"Alfred!" The voice tried again, closer this time.
The boy just shivers, quietly wishing the world would just end. That he would just, end. Why? Why did he have to be alive?
"Oh, Alfred." The voice said they were in the alley with him.
The boy flinched away from their touch, fear filling his eyes as he jumped away. He looks at them as he shakes, curling his wings impossibly tighter.
"Come on son, let's go somewhere safe." The person, a tall man said. He gently picks the boy up and takes him away from the street and the blood. The boy, Alfred, continues to shiver and sob.
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A 7-year-old boy stood in front of a mirror, looking at himself blankly. He was covered with light bruises. To still mar his skin after all this time, they were originally really severe.
He took one of his wings into his hands, the feathers a bit matted with a few completely missing. He looks at it like it was the source of all the problems on Earth. He let the appendage go and it falls limply behind him. He then looks to his left and calmly takes a knife into his left hand. His right-hand finding where his wings met his back.
Then, with one swift motion, a soft thunk rang through the room followed by another. The knife softly placed down, its job complete.
The small boy forces himself to smile, a young slave enters and screams at what she sees. George Washington himself races down the hall and he starts crying at what he considered his son had just done.
