Hollowed

-1-

      The sound of rain pelting against the house comforted America. It had been a while since the rain clouds had come, and the earth was dry and desperate. He sat up on his unkempt bed, staring outside at the endless waves of tiny droplets pouring on his window. Rubbing his eyes, he drowsily put his prosthetic leg on and wobbled to the kitchen. 

     "Good afternoon, comrade. Did you sleep well?" 

     Soviet had visited last night to help him with his truck, and asked if he could stay over due to the warning of thunderstorms and heavy rain the next day.

     "As best I could." He dug through his cabinets for something to eat, and picked out a can of Chef Boyardee mini raviolis. 

      "Mm. The rain doesn't seem to be letting up." Soviet shuffled the newspapers in his hands. He'd never really been one for TV, so he just read the daily paper.

     "Forecast called for rain all through today and tomorrow, so you might not be able to go back until tomorrow afternoon." America was eating the raviolis straight out of the can- the microwave was broken and he couldn't get a replacement- not in this weather. He didn't mind, though. He'd eaten plenty his share of canned food in his lifetime, and it was just fine without being heated up. 

    He sat on the couch next to Soviet, propping his right leg up onto his left knee. 

    "Has the new prosthesis been treating you well?"  Soviet looked up from the paper.

    "As well as the first one did. Was a tad difficult to break in, though." America's fork scraped on the side of the can. The two sat in silence for a few seconds longer until thunder rumbled from outside. America, now finished with his can of raviolis- he'd eaten pretty fast- tossed the can and the lid into the trash. 

    "Did you put the truck in the garage?"

    Soviet nodded. It was a relatively old truck, one America had gotten from the dump to repair. He'd found it lying in a heap of twisted sheet metal in 1992, and it was in a good enough condition to where he could repair it- with a few spare parts here and there. 

    "Have you taken your medicine yet?" 

     "I'll take it in a minute." Soviet was always reminding him to take care of himself- he often forgot to do so or didn't want to entirely. 

     "You look tired, Amerika. Were you even able to sleep at all?" Soviet looked over at his solemn-faced comrade- he'd been like that ever since he was deemed unfit for service in 2010. Hell, even before that. The Vietnam war wasn't too nice to him, and neither was Korea or the Second World War. 

    "I don't remember." He scratched the back of his head. 

    Soviet looked over at his friend with worry. Surely his memory isn't getting worse? 

   "Can you remember what you ate for dinner yesterday?"

   "No."

   Soviet sighed, but not loud enough for America to hear. His comrade's memory was getting worse, just as he expected. He didn't want him to get major memory loss this early in life, or even worse- Alzheimer's. He didn't want his friend to die, not yet. It's too early for him to die. Then again, he'd seen men younger than him succumb to bullet wounds and infections. 

    He noticed America staring straight in front of him, but his eyes weren't focused. Soviet scooted forward to look at him.

   "Amerika?" He snapped his fingers. "Amerika!?"

   Nothing. He seemed to be staring into an abyss. Soviet had seen this happen before, not just with America, but with other soldiers- the Thousand Yard Stare, they called it. Soviet is a patient man, however, and he waited until his comrade's eyes refocused again.

   "So...Soviet?"

   "Yes, comrade?"

   "Wh..Why- 
    Who-
    Where am I?"

   "You are in your home, comrade. In your country." 

   "Soviet?"

   "Mhm?"

   "Where's my sergeant at?"