the united states of america, except i make her cunty

england is even more of a fuck up

MASSIVE TW FOR BULIMIA AND EATING DISORDERS

The maid fitted New York in a yellow dress. New York isn't sure if the dress is fit for the occasion.

Yellow is supposed to represent happiness, isn't it? Happiness and smiling and laughing. New York isn't any of those things. New York is miserable, frowning, and crying. It seems like centuries have passed since New York has ever known cheer.

How could New York be happy when the Dutch Republic sold her to Master England? How could she be happy, when her mother and brothers and sisters shunned her like an aberration, like a demon, for simply existing? How could she be happy in this unwelcome environment, where soldiers and statues and Master England make her feel so small and insignificant?

New York resists the urge to cry. To sob. To wail and pound at the floor and whimper and do all the things she isn't supposed to. Instead, she reaches on her tip-toes and opens the door leading into the hallway. Soldiers already guard her room, stoic faces staring blankly ahead.

New York doesn't know her way around Master England's estate. The tour wasn't very helpful. New York clears her throat, and the soldier to the left of her nods.

"Which way is the dining hall?"

The soldier escorts her to the dining hall instead of telling her where the room is, making New York feel like a prisoner in Master England's estate.

When New York enters the room, Master England sits there in contemplation, glaring down at a piece of parchment while drinking from a teacup, a quill and inkpot sit nearby. He slowly tears his gaze away from the parchment, green eyes piercing into her. New York wants to quiver, but she doesn't. Some servants stand stoically in the room.

Master England nods at the soldier, and he leaves the room, leaving New York to brave the cruel stare of Master England. "Sit," he instructs her shortly. "Dinner will be served momentarily."

New York obeys, a servant pulling out her chair. She climbs into the chair, eyes trained on the oak table. The table stretches long before them, her seat at the very other side of where Master England is. They sit in tense silence, only the scraping of Master England's quill on parchment to fill the silence.

Eventually, after what seemed like decades, Master England speaks to her. "Did the Dutch Republic allow you food?" he inquires.

Startled, New York looks up, biting her lip. She shakes her head, "No. Va-, the Dutch Republic said our kind didn't need to eat. That it was just a waste."

If Master England noticed her slip-up when mentioning the Dutch Republic, he chose not to say anything. The only indication that he heard what New York said was the thin line his mouth formed when New York spoke.

Master England set down his quill, motioning for a servant to take the materials in front of him. "In my household, I will expect you to take your meals with me, morning, noon, and night," he commanded. "You are expected to be grateful for each meal, and wait for me to dismiss you before you leave this room. This food is a blessing and a privilege. The Dutch Republic was correct when he said that our kind does not need to eat. Our kind does not excrete, therefore food offers nothing but taste."

New York listens to each word intently, fidgeting with her fingers beneath the table. Master England's words pierced through her, each harsh command making her want to flinch.

"Furthermore, I expect you to purge your food with me."

"Master England," New York begins softly. "What do you mean by purge?"

Master England tilts his head. New York thinks she must have done something wrong and panics. She quickly begins to apologize for questioning his demands, but he gestures for her to stop.