✿ Forget-Me-Nots - A Sovame Story ✿

Chapter 5 ~Scars.~ U.S P.O.V

    TW: Concise sexual scene (Not marked, but quite obvious), Violence.

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    He holds the pair of earplugs up to his ears, but before he pushed them in, he's alarmed by a sudden knock at the door.

    "Who could possibly be here today, especially at this time?" He grumbles, aggressively setting the pair of earplugs down on the counter before stomping his way to the door. He turns the knob, only to receive a menacing stare from a tall, robust country.

    "Of course it's you. Come to wish me happy independence day?" he spat. "America, I want to talk," Soviet says, ignoring his vicious attitude. "Well, I don't!" He attempts to shut the door but is unfortunately stopped by Soviet's arm pushing it back open.

    Soviet steps in, which enrages him. "Who do you think you are?" Soviet blinks. "Excuse me? I am the Soviet Union, second to none," Soviet obnoxiously states. "Oh, that's funny." He sneers. "You mean second to America?" Soviet huffs. "What is with your attitude today? You'd think one would be happy on their own independence day."

    "Nothing! I just don't want to talk," He snarls and slams the door into Soviet, causing an agitated grunt from the other country. "Ow," Soviet exclaims. "Look I don't know what your problem is, but—" Suddenly, Soviet's sentence is cut off by the sound of a soft hiss then a strong bang; Fireworks.

    A shiver is sent up his spine. The sound was all too familiar and he was reminded of something. .

    A fuzzy vision of war, turning vivid. . . 

    They were invisible. They were the trees. He was tired, miserable, and deep down he was terrified.

He was stuck to South Vietnam's side, trudging through the muddy terrain and navigating through the dark, wet jungle. Then, he turned. S. Vietnam was gone.

His head thrashed around, pointing his gun at every possible suspect. "Where had he gone?" he thought, his mind thinking of every dark, gruesome possibility.

Within milliseconds, his gun was ripped from his hands, and an arm wrapped around his throat. It was North Vietnam, along with Vietcong.

He was stuck in the mud, N. Vietnam's arm and legs wrapped around him; the arm preventing oxygen to his brain, the legs chaining him down into the mud.

He couldn't get it out of his mind. It was real. He was there again. His cries for help were nothing but hoarse gasps, his exploding head, his hair stuck to his forehead; caused by sweat and summer rain, his bare hands clawing at N. Vietnam's arm like a cat and a curtain. But the arm would not budge, no matter how he scratched, struggled, or smacked.

He was hopeless. He felt scared, Embarrassed. . . His gun was only a few feet away, buried in the same mud that wet his cheek. All he could do was thrash around, lightly head-butt N. Vietnam's abdomen, and stare up with bloodshot eyes full of fear. Stare up at the devilish smile that continuously taunts him with nightmares. Stare up at the red face with a yellow star, which he wanted so badly to rip off.

Every second felt like an eternity. Every second he grew more lightheaded. Yet, he continued to desperately try and inhale the humid, warm air.

"Not too cocky now. Isn't that right, America?" N. Vietnam had said something, a whisper perhaps. He couldn't hear anything; the loud ringing in his ears, the bombs, gunshots, and the sound of harsh rain falling onto the trees and mud canceled out anything else.

He's never felt fear or pain like this. It's the terrifying feeling of being dragged into a dark, inescapable void. It's the exploding feeling of the pain of being repeatedly stabbed in the head.