Eyes of an examerican[remake]

chapter 17

He's dizzy and confused. His eyes are blinded and his head is pounding. There are too many lights burning him and too many things floating inside his head because all the rest of them are there too. It hurts and he wants to sleep again, sleep forever.

But he can't because the faces in front of him are too familiar. Not good.

His eyes open but are already open and he watches the too familiar faces and too familiar people. Something tells him something, but he can't hear and doesn't want to know. Does he know them? Did he know them? He didn't know that because part of him said yes and most of him screamed no.

They're calling him.

"Alfred?"

But he can't hear them. He can't recognize the oh-so-familiar name. Or maybe he does. But he tells himself that he doesn't because he can't. He can't, he can't, he can't- but maybe he d- can't.

So instead he asks, "Who's that?"

Canada was in shock. For the first time in nearly fifty years he sees his brother again. And that brother can't remember who he is.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

His brother... no... the man with those disturbingly blank eyes tilts head like the innocent child lost long ago and asks, "Who's that?"

Something inside him breaks, shattering his heart, tearing his soul. This was his fault, wasn't it? But it wasn't like he wanted it to happen, so... was it his fault? But where was the fault if it was his? Was he sorry for killing him, or bringing him back? Or did he die at all?

"Alfred," Canada- Matthew finds himself repeating, "You're Alfred."

"No," His brother says, confused and... wary- I'm sorry-don't do that again- it hurts so badly... for some reason, "I-I am..."

He trails off, seemingly confused. The blank eyes obtain a distant sort of curiosity in its weakest form. They could never have been the bright blue eyes that were the sky.

"No, I am... but you are... I'm not It, I'm not him... And you are..."

Lord, please remember me, Alfred. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I really didn't. I'm so sorry.

"...but you aren't either..."

None of them dare speak.

But he can still hear himself shatter.

England watches this all in shock. America, America was here he was alive. He was... alive... He wants to laugh and cry and hug him and scream at him- England never did get to say goodbye all those years ago. And he missed him so terribly afterwards.

"Alfred, lad, surely you remember us, at least?" He has to remember, England needs him to remember. Because pain was a hungry, greedy thing and guilt ever more so. This was the chance that he dreams about in the dark witching hours where light was non-existent and the demons ran free; he will not lose this chance. After all, it's not every day a previously thought dead friend and sibling comes back to life.

Please remember...

Alfred- because that just had to be him- looks at the English gentleman with the perturbing empty eyes, "Who? I am... I am... not..." At this his image flickers and briefly morphs into that of Canada's old assistant, "Peter?" His form flickers back to America's and then to one of a small girl with bouncy brown curls, "No, Amanda, maybe?" And then, once again, he was Alfred. But not.

"I don't know."

But to what question, lad? He wonders miserably, What question do you not know?