Sta.sh
9/11 to America- Beware of constant Point of View changes.
Warning: This might be an uncomfortable subject to some people and entails the rather patriotic outlook on this historical event, so if this type of literature does not pertain to your views on 9/11 (As light as they may be), then I please ask you to at least look at the more creative and sentimental aspects of this literature. Viewer (Reader) discretion is advised. Blood is also mentioned.
"America? America! Are you alright-? God, w-what… Is that blood? Someone get China in here!"
Eyes unfocused and lids heavy.
Is pain like this even possible since my Revolutionary?
Civil?
World Wars?
Vietnam?
God, who even knows anymore. Just one question… why?
xXx
The world has always said that one who holds a hero complex shall fall.
In this case, a certain sole believer of heroism has fallen victim to something that has built on his shoulders for centuries. Of course, who would ever see a phone call, an alleged airplane highjack, and extremist threats, something oh so trivial or downright unbelievable, to end in disaster?
Screams of his citizens echoed through his eardrums, mixed with the sound of his heartbeat pumping rapidly with every second his morbid feelings lingered. The sound of England's voice to call him to the present was washed out with the blazing white, searing through his chest. His neck strained as pained yells emitted from his throat. His glasses, Texas, fell from its perch atop the bridge of his nose, the clattering of the object sounds like the buildings that currently falls as he feels every lost life and coursing explosion of hard-labor, the Twin Towers, crashing, falling, and being utterly destroyed to be nothing more than rubble of dust.
Who would've thought that waking up that morning would've entailed something so horrific?
Of course, America had been aloof just as anyone else, with his heroic complex. Smiles and all.
xXx
"America-san, we need you to calm down. Please, tell us what is wrong-…"
Another plea came from a soft spoken Japan, all to be ignored again as a vicious wave of nausea bubbled in his throat from how much everything hurt.
Oh god did it hurt.
Next thing the cocky and usually happy-go-lucky America knew, his head was being held back and a container of sorts was placed under his chin, as dribbles of blood that could've chocked him collected in said container, so sickly and crimson.
He may have been so far away from home but his country, as well as all the other country personifications, connected with the land.
xXx
Celebrations, birth, patriotism, and every good feeling with the people, you name it and they were one to feeling it until the last drop of happiness. Although it may have had its perks to be on cloud nine when a country has reached a high, it was a burden to carry this same connection to downfalls that hurt a nation, physically and emotionally.
Wars scarred mentality and darkened hearts with every slice of a cutlass and a blast of a bullet into the enemies' pawns. Damage dealt only fueled hatred between unconventional allies and longtime rivals.
Death of one's own people would only give faint flickers of pain that would come and go, a friendly reminder that they as nations would never die. As for the one's befriended? All they can do is watch. It's all they could do.
Treason of their own people, against their own nation; what would be presumed to be riled up citizens to a unfair government system or utter disgust, went much farther than any civil movement ever could.
There is a funny saying that goes "Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me", but the words; they stick around like a parasitic bug to skin, or a plague to a community of people. It damages pride that nations try so hard to gain.
xXx
"Oh… Gott. V-vhat is zhis?"
"Veh~ Germany, I don't want to watch anymore. Please, turn it off…"
"Je suis désolé, l'Amérique. I am so sorry…"
America felt himself being moved again into a much more comfortable position. The entire outside world had been distant as he found himself in a strange limbo. Flashes of the present back home gave him a migraine that stretched from dumfounded grade school kids looking blindly at the same television broadcast that the nations had been watching not too long ago, to workers and normal day-to-day people who stopped all daily activities to only watch as horror revealed itself in New York, and the people who were actually in New York and in the Twin Towers.
America shut his eyes as the collected pool of unshed tears threatened to spill over as he could only nod in response to France and ward away the distraught tones of both Germany and Italy.
It all felt so, so wrong.
His lips pulled into a strong frown with a furrowed brow to complete his grimace as more pain showered over him and a breathy, pained groan escaped his lips.
Just let it be over. No more, no more.
Then, a cold air settled in that raised the hairs on the back of his neck and strangely ceased the burning, numbing that he had endured for the last hour.
"Do not worry, Amerika, I shall not be hurting you this time. I shall only be playing role of medic today," more scuttling was heard before the strange coolness was in front of him and pressure was applied to his gaping chest. "What shall I do now, China?"
Russia's baritone voice was the last America heard before he finally let in a long breath and succumbed to sleep, welcoming the final, if maybe temporary relief from the gaping tear that now marked itself on his skin.
The voices of his people, pausing.
The tingle of death, ceasing.
The burning of the blood under skin, cooling.
The tears and tremendous pain, saved for another day.
Such as every nation with history, they all earn scars.
Emotional and Physical.
Permanent.
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