The Storm [DISCONTINUED]

Chapter Eight

(Eey long chapter! Brace yourselves)

America awoke the next morning to a woman crying.

She looked older, maybe in her late forties? She had short dark brown hair and tanned skin. Her eyes were wide and brown, and tears leaked from their edges.

Confused, America observed her surroundings and noticed that in her lap lay the limp body of what looked like a ten-year-old girl. The same brown hair and tan skin, but America could not see what color her eyes were because they were closed. And then, with a sinking heart, America realized they wouldn't open again.

Mexico had already sprung up and knelt next to the woman. He comfortingly wrapped her in a hug as she sobbed into his shoulder. Americ also stood, careful not to wake the still sleeping Cass, and went to the body of the girl.

America's eyes blurred as he looked at her. He didn't even feel her die. Was he numb? Or does he just not care anymore?

America shook the thought away, angered with himself. Yes, I do care, I care more than anyone else. I just didn't feel it because of all the others.

So she doesn't matter? Was she just another number? A statistic? Just another excuse used to protect little Cass? A venomous voice whispered in his head.

Growing angry with himself, America retorted in his mind, No, I need to save everyone. I'm the Hero! It's not just Cass. It's José, it's Mattie, Arthur, Kiku. Even Ivan. I'm going to save everyone!

When he did not reply to himself, America internally grinned, satisfied. Mexico still sat off to the side, holding the crying mother. He cracked open an eye, looking at America, and slightly nodded, the "okay" to move the child.

America scooped the frail body into his arms and proceeded to walk towards the entrance. He had only done this a few times but knew not to look back at the now screaming and heartbroken mother.

It would break him inside.

XXXXX

When America returned from the burial pit where they put the bodies, tears once again blurred his vision when he saw the ex-mother crying and screaming hoarsely for her daughter to come back.

People around her tried to comfort her, but she seemed to be deaf to their condolences.

America decided to finally really help someone and knelt down next to her. Tears were flowing from her eyes and America worried she would dehydrate.

"Miss," he was surprised at his weak voice.

She managed to calm down enough to look at him. "Anne," she hiccuped, wiping her eyes.

America rubbed her back soothingly like he did for Cass all the time. "I'm Alfred," he replied.

She sniffled and whispered, "That was my husband's name." America didn't know how to respond.

"My son's name was James, and my daughter's name was Caitlin," she told him through fresh tears.

"Caitlin?" America repeated, and Anne nodded, wiping her nose. America stared at his clenched fist for a moment, wondering if what he was about to do was cruel or not.

With a quick prayer that what he was doing was right, America opened his hand. On his palm was a simple pink hairclip with a small plastic flower on it.

"I noticed this on Caitlin's hair, and thought you should have it...to keep her with you," America explained awkwardly.

Anne stared at it for a moment, then shakily took it in her hands. She held it delicately, like some kind of precious jewel.