Stressed Out (A RusAme story)

Chapter 20

America sat in his house, on a couch. It's late, everyone's out. Russias with family, and the states are our with eachother or are in the woods. He sat in dead silence before standing up and walking to the basement door.

He seemed to hesitate, before grabbing the handle and opening the door. He walked down and closed the door behind himself. He walked down the flight of steps and into a room off of the main part.

He let out a slight sigh and waited. Dixie should be here soon. America sat there and waited, he glanced at a shelf on the wall. There sat a baseball bat, a metal one. He looked forwards again as a figure appeared.

"Greetings Dixie!" He said with a fake, cheery, tone. Dixie waved at him. "So why did you want me to meet you here?" He questioned. America paused for a moment. "I have some things to address with you."

With that statement he swiped the baseball bat from its place and struck Dixie across the face. Dixie let out a yelp and toppled over. America struck again, hitting him over the head. Dixie attempted to speak, but in vain.

America practically blacked out, anger over came him. He couldn't process what Dixie was saying though his cries. America started cursing at Dixie. "You pitiful weak bastard!" He hissed. Dixie tried to catch the bat.

America swung and broke his hand. He took swing after swing, blood spattering on the walls, floors, his clothes, everywhere. He slammed hits longer than Dixie was even alive physically. Minutes after he was dead America quit.

America stood there panting, looking at the dead body below. He dropped the bat, it landed with a metallic clank. He stood there, his breathing ragged and his chest rising and falling fast. He grabbed Dixie by the arms, dragging him.

He dragged Dixie up the stairs and dragged him outside. He dragged the body though the woods and dropped him After about 10 minutes. He looked down at a freshly dug hole, specifically 10 feet deep and 6 feet wide.

He picked Dixie up, and dropped him into the dark, damp hole. He grabbed a shovel that had been stuck in a pile of dirt, and started piling dirt over the body. After a few minutes ge picked up a tree sprout.

It wasn't any sort of special tree, just a simple oak. He set the sprout in the dirt and covered the roots, then finished placing the rest of the dirt over the hole. He patted down the dirt and then turn tailed back to his house.

He went to a shed and dropped off the  shovel. He then walked back into his house and quickly got to scrubbing the blood out of the wooden floors. It took him an hour but it worked. He then went to the bathroom and took a shower.

After his shower and after a new clean change of clothes, he grabbed his blood-soaked clothes and went outside. It was almost fully dark. He placed the clothes in a fire pit and soaked them in gasoline. He grabbed 4 logs of wood.

Stacking them around the clothes and dousing them in the rest of the gasoline, he grabbed a matchbox and lit a match. He threw it onto the clothes and flames shot to life, soaring high and shining bright.

He let out a low sigh. He grabbed a chair that was to his left and sat down. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. Ah yes, his disgusting secret habit. His closet friends and family would kill him.