Operation Red Herring (Countryhumans Alternate History)

Chapter 34

TW: Mentions/Description of Suicide, Described Panic Attack

America hadn't been hungover in an extremely long time. Yet, she could remember the feeling very well. The distinct pounding in her skull, the way the room seemed to tilt if she stood up too fast, the way every fiber of her being wanted to die (or go back in time and shoot past her in the face for drinking so much). But it had been over a decade since she had last drank, and even longer since she had been properly hung over. So why was it that she felt like she had drunk two gallons of whiskey the night before?

She groaned, forcing herself to crack her eyes open, everything in her line of sight slightly out of focus for a moment. It was dark, something she was initially grateful for, as she wasn't sure how her headache would respond to light. Yet, this gratitude soon gave way to confusion. Why was it dark? Hadn't it just been morning? When had she fallen asleep? Why would she fall asleep to begin with?

America sat up, and instantly regretted it. The room spun and she braced herself against the floor. Jesus Christ, why the hell did she feel like she had been run over by a locomotive? The only thing she ingested was cold pasta and that water at the 'meeting'.

...Had she been drugged?

She groaned, burying her head back into her arms. She really shouldn't have been all that surprised. It was them. Of course they would pull something like that. America sighed, peeking out of her arms. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she gasped. She scrambled to her feet, panicking when she realized that she didn't recognize the room she was in.

Sh*t.

The room looked like a cellar in a very old house. The walls were rough, and made out of some sort of rock or cement. It was dark and borderline dingey, and the air felt damp. There were no windows and the ceiling was claustrophobically low, with it almost brushing America's head when she was standing. There was a rusty pipe going up the wall in the corner closest to her, which went across the ceiling, a small leak letting water slowly drip down from it. A worn blanket was thrown in the corner she had woken up near, and a singular door.

A door that was closed.

America ran over to the door, stumbling over herself in her haste. She tried the handle, her heartbeat spiking when she discovered that it was locked.

"Japan?" She called out, her voice wavering. She tried again, and then a third time, shaking the knob frantically.

Sh*tSh*tSh*tSh*tSh*tSH*TSH*TSH*TSH*TSH*TSH*TSH*T!

"Japan?! JAPAN?!" She shouted, banging on the door with all of her strength. "SOMEONE?! LET ME OUT!"

She gasped, breathing suddenly becoming choked and more difficult to do. This couldn't be happening. Not again! She couldn't be locked in again! She couldn't be trapped. She clawed at the door, screaming everything and anything she could think of. Panic crashed through her. Apologies and pleas and questions that only echoed back at her in the dark, damp room. No one could hear her. No one would even if they were right there. No one cared. No one would let her out. Dear God, why wouldn't anyone let her out?!

America felt the tears that came, each sob wracking through her as she threw herself against the door, an almost animalistic desperation taking hold of her. Memories and present panic blurred together into a dread fuelled fever-dream. One moment she was there, the next she was in her childhood room, the next she was in a burning building in D.C.

Each time was the same- desperate wailing and beating on a locked door, panic filling her lungs like a thick smoke and suffocating her. She vaguely registered the sting of cuts- her knuckles bleeding from punching the door, red specks dribbling from her fingers. A spike of fear drilling itself into her spine, paralyzing her from doing anything rational or helpful. She could only bring herself to react, terror seizing her mind and will.