Operation Red Herring (Countryhumans Alternate History)

Chapter 38

TW: Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape, Brief Depiction of Sexual Assault

America had given up trying to break down the door. It had become too much energy to throw herself against it and deal with the subsequent wave of nausea that came with the reminder that she was trapped. Then again, the nausea might have been from a lack of food. America couldn't really tell at this point. She had eaten something a few times since being locked away in the dark, damp room. What that something was, she had no idea, but it was something. She had woken up and it had been near the door- some drab mess that smelled sour and tasted spoiled that she had prayed was edible. Then again, she wouldn't put it past God to give her food poisoning on top of everything else she was currently going through.

Her hands were constantly cold. Scratch that- everything was cold. The walls, the floor, the cursed metal door- but she noticed it most in her limbs. Specifically her hands, fingers feeling frigid and almost numb. America was also distinctly aware of the way the stained cuffs of her shirt didn't fit quite right anymore- they hung slightly from her pale wrists, like a pall half-hazardly strewn over the casket at a funeral no one cared to attend.... If she died right now, would that be the case? Would her body be left to rot? Forgotten and carelessly cast aside with only a soot covered blouse to hold her?

Well, a soot covered blouse and Jerome.

Jerome was the rat that had begun to make himself known over the past... however long it had been, and was America's decided best friend. Who needed allies or mentors or family when she had Jerome. Sure, Jerome had bitten her once, but so had Canada, so it wasn't a huge deal. Anywho, Jerome was an ugly rat, who had patchy fur and was so thin that his crooked spine could always be seen. But America would never tell him that, because she knew how much it hurt to be called horrid things, and what did Jerome ever do to anyone? It wasn't his fault that he was born wrong. Did the other rats laugh at him? Did they say he wasn't being a rat the right way? Did they call him a freak and shove him to the ground? Did they call him a monster when he finally bit back? Did Jerome have a family? Were they looking for him? Would they grieve if he were to never return? Would there be a little rat funeral, with a little rat church and a little rat pastor going on about how little rat Jerome is in little rat hell along with all the other little rat fag-

America's breath hitched as she felt a sharp object pierce her skin. She blinked, trying to bring her mind back from whatever dark corner that had been as she watched Jerome scurry off. She had been holding him, and had apparently taken to squeezing him, giving the fresh bite on her hand. She watched as a small bead of blood formed, silently thankful that he had bitten her. She didn't want to kill Jerome. Afterall, he was the only one who would mourn her rotting corpse. Who knows, maybe he would eat it. America wouldn't blame him. Afterall, she had a very similar thought about him before someone had finally put that dismal excuse for a meal in her cell.

Ah yes, Jerome the rat and America, the perfect ecosystem. She hoped he would stop by again soon.

America heard the distinct noise of boots clicking, and cursed. Speaking of rats, coming now was one that she was not looking forward to seeing. Ever. Yet, he was the only one who ever came through that damned door. She cringed as the rusty hinges made a horrible screeching noise, and glowered at the short man that stood in the doorway.

She didn't bother getting up when he walked in. America used to always stand, towering over Third Reich and making it clear that if he didn't have a gun, she would've strangled him. But she was tired, and had decided that he really wasn't worth the energy that it took for her to get up and act menacing. Besides, America knew how pathetic she looked, and even without the whole captive situation, menacing wasn't a look she was able to wear particularly well. So she instead glared at him from her place on the floor, glowering at him as she seethed.