Hetalia: The Fifty Stars

Chapter 35: Mother's Day

West Virginia. The 35th state is Virginia's little brother who behaves the complete opposite of her. Preferring the isolated mountains of his home, he had always found Virginia to be invasive and oppressive. Never taken seriously, he eventually made his split from her during the Civil War. Considered illegal and unconstitutional by some, especially Virginia, West Virginia nevertheless became a state.

Years later since his statehood, West Virginia has lived on his own in peace, making a living off coal and mineral resources as his source of income. He hadn't spoken to Virginia since their split, still bitter over past disagreements. But one day, he had a change in heart and decided to pay her a visit for the first time since leaving her.

☆☆☆☆☆

The springtime air was warmer than usual today. Back on the mountain, it was usually much cooler, not as humid as the deep forest by the remains of a swamp. Sigh... I miss home already.

I tugged the wrinkled collar of my white, ironed, buttoned shirt, wiping away sweat at the back of my neck. I then wiped my hand on the inside of my brown, tweed jacket. Subconsciously I sniffed my hand, smelling a hint of hair wax with my sweat. I rolled my eyes, wanting to find a mirror to see whether my caramel brown was messed up from the humidity. I should've wore my leather cap. Wouldn't have to bother with such a dumb problem. I peered down on myself again, double-checking to see whether my brown suspenders were on correctly. Staring down at my shoes, I noticed an oily smudge at the tip of the left shoe. I licked my hand before attempting to try and wipe the smudge away. Somehow it worked. But now my hands are dirty... Fuck!

Wait, what the heck am I doing? Why am I here,standing on the white, front porch, three steps from knocking on the screen door of someone I can't stand the most? I shouldn't be forced to dress all nice like a sleazy car salesman. I should be at home, hunting and hanging out with grizzly, mountain men. This whole thing is a big mistake. There's no way she'll take me seriously, and in no way was I going to make myself look like an idiot. 

I stomped back down the first step of the porch before stopping there. In my left hand was a bouquet made up of a dozen white carnations. I originally planned on sending her a greeting card, but I wasn't good with words and my handwriting wasn't exactly as fancy as hers. Instead, I paid a good chunk of my salary on some fancy flowers, hoping she prefer them than a half-ass letter. Not a beige petal or a speck of dirt was present. Its fragrance was a pure aroma, a charitable memory full of truth and prayer. The woman who suggested these flowers informed me when they die, the petals won't fall off. Instead, the petals would "hug" toward the center of the flower, like a mother's love toward her children.

Why I chose white carnations was because of a woman in my home who suggested the plain-looking flower to be the epitome of motherly love. In fact, she was the same woman who forced me into doing this stupid idea. I kept telling her she isn't my mother, but she insisted I do this out of kindness and gratitude.

"Mother or not, it's important you show just how much you appreciate her hard work for taking good care of your well-being," she insisted.

"Heck no! She's the absolute worse. Never once did she listen to me. She always forces me into doing chores, and tells me off on every little thing I do. "Don't come inside with your muddy boots. You're going to dirty the clean floor. Hold your knife and fork properly. Please don't burp at the table. Clean yourself up properly. You smell like a lumberjack's armpit." If there's one thing I'm grateful for is the fact I don't have to live with her anymore." I pouted.

"You shouldn't say such things." 

"You don't know her. She's selfish and tyrannical. When I suggested I leave her, she refused to let me go."