America went inside his apartment and fell onto his couch. He was laying there for a while, and was so out of it and sleep-deprived that he must have fallen asleep.
--~--
America was launched into memory after memory, each one only lasting a few seconds each. They were all during the civil war. One in particular, however, lasted more than a few seconds.
America watched a past version of him pace around, obviously stressed. This one seemed to be before the civil war. America heard past him muttering and found himself listening in out of habit.
"What the hell? Why is everything falling apart?" Past America looked at his own hand for a second and only then did Present America notice that he had cracks, too. America suddenly remembered this. He has gotten cracks before-
Past America interrupted his train of thought, "Why is this happening?! I don't f*cking bleed anymore and then my eyes casually start going black like ok-" He was interrupted by a string of awful coughs that went on for way too long. When Past America was done coughing, He started looking at his hand for way too long, "I now apparently cough f*cking black stuff now."
Present America looked at his own increasingly cracked hand in fear. This is what the crack causes? He had completely forgotten about all of this. But- why did he forget? The memory suddenly ended, leaving America in a black void.
America was honestly just about halfway done with everything when the memories started again. This time they were longer and crueler. America was forced to sit there and watch his friends and allies die over and over again. Sometimes, he joined them in the fighting. And after multiple repeats of the same vicious cycle, he gave up trying to fight and let himself get shot multiple times, over and over again. Each time he was shot, he felt relieved actually.
Why?
Because it meant he wouldn't just stand there and watch his friends die. He never could save them, because he was never on time.
He was always one second too late.
And then, BANG!
They were on the floor, another body for the count.
And every time, America was left there, alone with his thoughts and tremendous guilt weighing on his shoulders.
"It's all your fault they're dead." An eerily familiar voice said in his ear, "You're always fashionably late, never on time. Maybe if you weren't so worthless you could save them."
America could feel tears on his cheeks as he found himself agreeing with those cruel words.
"You're worthless, America, unable to save a few measly human lives."
Suddenly, America was in front of what looked to be mountains upon mountains of bodies.
"You see that, America? I'm sure you recognize some of those faces. Kevin, Lynn, Samuel, Anna... All of these bodies are the people you failed to save."
America whispered, "I'm sorry-"
"Are you happy, America? Are you happy that all these people are dead? You practically all sent them to their deaths, like lambs to the slaughter."
America reached his hand out to all the people, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"Mean to what? Kill us?" America was horrified when he noticed that the people in front of him- dead people- were saying this, but he also felt incredible guilt weighing on his heart.
"I didn't mean to, I just wanted to help-" America started looking at the floor.
"Is this your definition of help, Mr. America?" It was a tiny voice, one he remembered far too well. Anna.
"Anna, I-" America looked up to see a horrifying sight. Anna was above him, her skin far too pale and her eyes pitch black. This was even more terrifying considering Anna looked to be the same age as when she died- 10.
"It's too late for apologies now, Mr. America," Anna said, looking straight at America, the wound that caused her death painfully obvious.
"You were the one who stood there and let me die."
"I didn't mean to-"
"YOU KILLED ME!" America's heart broke when she said that.
She was right. He was too late. He tried to stop her, but her body was on the ground, bleeding out from a critical bullet wound before he could even take a step forward to stop her. It was all flooding back to him- the way she smiled, the way she talked, her ambition to become an artist and make her parents proud. If America hadn't interfered, she'd be alive right now. If America had told her to stay away instead of letting her come along, she would've lived that horrible day.
"I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry..." America felt even more tears on his cheeks.
"Sorry won't cut it anymore, Mister."
And with that, she faded away. Leaving America to sit there and cry, all alone in that pitch-black void with nothing but the bodies of those he couldn't save and the tremendous guilt of his actions weighing down on him.
--~--
When America woke up, he almost forgot what happened in his dreams. But he didn't. After a few seconds, he remembered everything and felt terrible in so many ways.
"... I'm sorry, Anna, I really am..." America said to himself. It was more of a way of dealing with the guilt than an actual apology- since she already rejected his apologies- but it helped. Somewhat.
It was Thursday morning. America had a pretty minor meeting with NATO in the afternoon. Due to convenience, NATO had decided to come over for the entirety of the week so that if countries wanted to, they could appoint a meeting with him and talk to him.
America went into the kitchen and decided he didn't want to eat anything. His dream made him lose his appetite. He wasn't even sure he wanted to eat anymore at all. He felt worthless and guilty. America went to his bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He noticed how his eyes were starting to turn gray. America also went to check on his cracks. They were several times worse than last night. Last night, they stretched across his hand. Now, they stretched across his right forearm. He was starting to get cracks on the fingertips of his left hands, too.
America heaved a long sigh. This will be a hard week to get through, especially now that his cracks are getting worse. America contemplated finding a doctor before Monday to help him; but, a strange voice, very similar to the voice in his dream, told him that he didn't deserve a doctor since the others couldn't have one before they died. America didn't want to have a fight in his head again and get another headache, so he simply accepted that thought. America still got the headache though. He felt it coming on and sighed. He was honestly done with the world and America was pretty sure the world was done with him.
America sighed, and was about to leave the bathroom when he looked at the old scars on his eyes. America felt where they were and couldn't help but think about how ugly they were. "At least now they won't be as ugly as my actual eyes," America commented to himself, noting how quickly his eyes were going gray. With a frown, America put on his sunglasses and started to get ready for his meeting with NATO.
---x---
The meeting was nothing special, it just lasted way longer than it should've. Way too many complications that honestly should've been sorted out beforehand, but that's fine. America looked at his hotel bed and decided he was going to pull an all-nighter. It would be hard, but the fear of going back to that nightmare would drive America onward. America stayed up all night, browsing on the internet and doing random things. At some point in the night, America's stomach grumbled and America realized he hadn't eaten since yesterday. America got an apple with the intention of eating it, but something felt wrong when he bit into the apple, so after about five bites, America threw out the apple.
Everything just felt wrong to America today.
---x---
Eventually, morning came and America heard a knock on the door. He opened the door to see an enthusiastic yet terrified Canada.
"What's up, bro?" America winced at how awful his voice sounded, but Canada didn't seem to notice.
"UKRAINEASKEDMEOUTWHATDOIDO?"
America, sleep-deprived, did not understand a word his brother said. Honestly, Canada was kind of acting like a child who was just given a piece of candy. "Say that again... but slower."
Canada took a deep breath in, "Ukraine. Asked. Me. Out."
America blinked, then smiled, "That's great, bro! Ukraine's been your crush for years, right?"
"Shush!" Canada said, "No one must know."
"Pfft, ok."
"But what do I do?" Canada asked.
"Be the best gay flirt you can be and immediately go for gold." America joked, winking and giving his brother finger guns.
Canada looked at America as if he was a crazy, homeless man. "Are you crazy? Actually, nevermind, that sounds like advice you would give."
America laughed at that, but it was more of a forced laugh than anything. That comment was really supposed to be a joke, but Canada took it seriously. Did he really come off like that to his own brother? For Russia, it's understandable, but America felt awful. He would change that right now. He'll become the best f*cking brother in the whole wide world so that he isn't just that arrogant b@stard in the corner, flipping people off.
"Well, be nice as usual. If Ukraine asked you out, that means he likes you for you. So just... be Canada. The nice dude in the corner getting drunk on maple syrup."
Canada looked at America for a second, looked at the floor for a second, and then looked at America, saying, "That advice actually isn't half-bad."
"Ouch, does my advice not meet your standards?"
"Thanks bro, I need to go now to get ready!" Canada smiled, avoiding America's question completely. Ouch.
America smiled and closed his hotel door. Once it was closed, he put his forehead on the door.
"Am I really seen as such a heartless sh!t?"
------
Hi!
I'm having difficulties choosing songs for each chapter but that's fine.
I also only just realized that I gave myself waaaay too much time in the story to build America's depresso espresso state.
Anyway, now that most of the big plot points have been set in place, it's time to start the main country meetings. So, big time skip coming up
Tschüss!
-Selva