Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

8. Cold

September 21, 2001

Columbia Heights

Washington, D.C., United States

The restaurant was quiet for four in the afternoon. I moved my jaw up and down, chewing tasteless food. Our table for three sat by a window of cloudless blue sky. My eyes found a single chemtrail streaking across the sky, and I felt a rush of anxiety. The same that kept me awake for ten sleepless nights.

Ireland's exasperated groan drew my attention.

"No, no, no—red paint? Are you mental?"

My eyes scanned the dozens of paint swatches scattered across the table.

"Burgundy," England corrected emphatically. "A color which stimulates the mind, Ireland. It's basic psychology."

She scoffed. "Red is the color of anger."

With a short sigh, England took her card out of her hand. He set it over his red swatch, next to their already agreed-upon shade of beige. "Green is the color of jealousy," he murmured.

Ireland shooed his hand away. "Look, look. When I look at this..." She set her fingertips on the cards and smiled whimsically. "I see grass, meadows, butterflies..."

He pressed a single finger to his temple. "Rubbish."

"When I look at this..." She uncovered the red swatch dramatically. "I see a bleedin' scabbed knee."

I went back to moving some vegetables around on my plate. Even though the topic at hand was my new condo, I couldn't bring myself to be the least bit interested.

"A sign of a dull mind."

"Shove it, you daft git."

My mind began to wander. To dark thoughts—the very thoughts that plagued me every night. Shaking my head, I tiredly pulled it back from the brink. I focused instead on poking symmetrical holes in my mashed potatoes.

"What do you think, Meiriceá?"

I looked up. Both of them were watching me expectantly, as if the color of a wall had even a fraction of significance in this world.

"I don't care," I said flatly.

Ireland's gaze fell. "Sorry," she muttered. "I know you have more important things on your mind."

England's steady gaze was fixed on me. "She does indeed."

I waved my fork apathetically.

Breathing out an embarrassed laugh, Ireland looked up and blinked her eyes as they glossed over with tears. "I'm really, really sorry," she breathed, choking up.

England frowned as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

My eyes darted between the two of them in pure confusion. "Ireland, it's just paint."

She blotted the corners of her eyes with her linen napkin. "You know what they say...," she sniveled. "When America sneezes, Britain catches a cold."

A smile twitched at England's lips. "'Britain' again," he said proudly. "And so soon."

"You know what I mean," she grumbled, shooting him a tearful glare. "The 'Anglosphere,' or whatever."

I looked away.

"Happy to be the glue that binds our little family together."

I heard her scoff. "You're disgusting."

I wanted to call out their involvement with the EU, which was pulling them farther and farther away from said sphere as time went by, but I didn't have the energy. Hell, if Canada could join the EU, she would. Australia too. I silently glared out the window.

That night, England removed my coat after our evening stroll through the new neighborhood. I let him slide it off my arms, standing there in the same numb silence that had pervaded my week. After hanging it up, he slid his arms around my waist from behind, pulling our bodies flush together. His voice tickled my ear.

"What will help you relax, darling?"

I stood there unresponsive. The rapidly approaching sunset rose a sea of negative emotions within me. I had thought that England staying over would have at least staved it off, but no.

"A bath?"

"...Sure."

In the bath, in the dim candlelight, my tears inevitably came. England held me to his chest, helpless to stop them. I clutched the back of his neck with a slippery hand, trying desperately to draw even an ounce of strength from him. A black hole in my chest seemed to swallow everything inside me except for pain.

Sitting on my bed, I mindlessly brushed my damp hair as I watched the evening news.

"Still not much information coming from the intelligence community or the Department of Defense for that matter, Chuck. Lots of finger-pointing this past week, with some military experts pointing to O—Osama...excuse me, Osama bin Laden, the leader of the Islamic extremist group Al Qaeda—"

The glass TV screen shut off with a flash, leaving behind a soft buzzing in the air. England crossed the room in a bathrobe and set the remote control on his nightstand. I continued to detangle my hair with increasingly agitated movements.

He leaned one hand on the bed and reached out with the other. "May I?"

Sitting cross-legged behind me, England gently brushed my hair as I stared at our disfigured reflections on the TV. Once it was tangle-free, he braided it with practiced fingers. He then swept the braid over my shoulder and pressed his lips to the side of my neck, testing the waters. I didn't respond.

"Movie night?" he murmured.

My eyes drifted to the glass cabinet of VHS tapes under the TV. I could barely speak through the tightness in my throat. "I would rather just lay down."

The streetlight shining through the blinds painted white lines across the carpet. I stared at them as silent tears soaked into my pillow. England's irregular breathing behind me revealed that he was also awake. His arm was curled around me protectively, but I felt more vulnerable than ever. I felt as though something terrible could happen at any moment.

I felt in danger.

With a breathless whimper, I rolled onto my back, the anguish and fear of three hundred million Americans crushing down on me. I crossed my arms over my chest. "E—England..."

"I know," he said hoarsely. He hovered over me, the pale light illuminating the tears on his face. He sniffled. "I feel it too."

~

A/N: Do you think America can pull through this? :/