America, In My Dreams (United States of America #2.5)

Monsters in Human Skin

Everything hurt, and even breathing was agony. For hours now, America had been trying not to move or make a sound, because doing either would mean more pain.

But still...

how could they?

How could her brother do this?

She knew that many of her people were being unfair when they decided to attack Canada's capital, but what Canada did to her own capital was taking what they did to a whole new level. 

He hurt her. Hurt her little ones, and did it all with a smile on his face. Beside him, England stood, proud of his son figure as they watched America's capital burn to the ground, unaware that they forever scarred two little boys, whether it be physical or psychologically, or of what they just did to whatever relationship they had with America.

Now the feeling in her chest was worse than the physical pain. She knew it was the feeling betrayal.

What were those things that took the forms of England and Canada? There was no other monster she could call them, except for one thing.

Demons in human skin.

Then realization dawned on her, so sudden she inhaled sharply, causing pain to her chest.

Her brother, her beloved brother Honan...he's dead. He had been dead for years, and she never realized it until today.

He was murdered by that monster, the monster going by the name of Matthew Williams. The boy who she knew would continue to call himself her brother, when he performed the most heinous act known to man.

The betrayal then changed to something she never thought she would feel in a long time.

Hatred.

The feeling was so intense that America wished the most unfortunate of events would plague the two men. She wanted those two to die, to die the most horrible and slow deaths. She wanted them to waste away and be damned to the ninth level of Hell. She wanted them out of her life.

"Mama...?" a childlike voice called from beside her, unsure and afraid. Despite her body being against it, America turned her head, seeing her little boy Daniel, being pushed in by a servant in a wheelchair. Tears burned her eyes at the sight of her two-year-old son, heavily bandaged in cloths that covered the horrible wounds underneath. All in all, he looked like a mummy, except a part of his face, one of the only places that remained untouched by the flames, was free of the bandages.

When the fire had been vanquished, Daniel had been found by a slave, who had to use every last bit of his strength to not throw up at the sight. Daniel's entire body was burnt to a crisp, and parts of his body remained untouched. Most of his hair was gone, his eye had been swollen shut, and he couldn't walk on his own. The slave also tried not to breathe in the smell of burnt flesh as he rushed the child to the nearest Doctor, which took a lot of discipline on his end.

The servant wheeled Daniel closer to his mother, then gently helped the latter sit up. Afterwards, he placed Daniel next to America, where he left the two to be alone for a while.

After the door closed, Daniel started to sob softly, struggling to move closer to America, all while America couldn't do anything to help him. She found herself silently crying too, until Daniel managed to get as close as he dared. Then they quietly cried together.

That day, America never hated anyone so much, or for many years to come.

~~~

America opened her eyes, her vision blurry with tears. That day would always live with her, until the day she ceased to exist. She always hated how she couldn't protect her children when that day came, and now look what happened.

D.C., physically scarred. Maine, traumatized. Her other children, terrified and hateful. America can still remember how outraged her older children at the time were of what England and Canada had done to their family and people, and it was something they would never forgive them for, ever.

America can even remember when she somehow when to the Sun Realm with her children during that time of distress.

~~~

The servants lead her children outside so they could play, not commenting on what had happened to them. America could tell that her children didn't know whether to appreciate the gesture or feel unnerved by it.

Meanwhile, America stayed in the room she was given, still unable to walk by herself. With her, her two sons, D.C. and Maine, remained. D.C. was sleeping by his mother's side, while Maine was silently screaming in his sleep. America weakly sung to him, which appeared to be working, because Maine was finally relaxing. Even when he went quiet, America kept rubbing his back.

A knock came at the door, and America let out a weak "Come in". The door then opened, and Cyrus came in, his face grim and his glowing eyes narrowed. When he spotted her, he was at her bedside in an instant. For the first time since she met him, America saw he was worried.

"Does it still hurt Migisi?" he asked her.

Weakly, America nodded, still rubbing Maine's back.

Quietly, Cyrus cursed under his breath. "Those trice-damned fools," he growled. "I never thought a son of Kwanita would harm his own sister."

"That thing is not my brother," America spat. "Honan is dead, has been for years now, and I didn't even know it."

Cyrus didn't even blink at her accusation.

"I was such a fool," America spat, tears stinging her eyes. "Now that foolishness has cost my children. What kind of mother am I? What kind of mother does this to her children?"

"Enough Migisi," Cyrus ordered, authority creeping into his voice. America silenced. "What happened is any mother's worst nightmare, but you didn't know this was coming, and hold on"--Cyrus held up a hand to keep America from interrupting--"I know this may not help you, but your children are still alive are they not?"

"Yes..." America answered hesitantly.

"Then be thankful that none of your children has died. And yes, your children will have challenges now, but these are challenges that they can overcome. Let this serve as a reminder that life is fleeting for your kind. Now, be wary of your enemies and even your friends, because now the people you thought were your friends never came to your aid. Only you can protect your children Migisi, and only you."

Cyrus' words hurt, but America knew he was right. No one came to help her during her time of need, telling her the cruelty of living life as a nation. Now, she is not just a personification, but a mother, a mother who has to protect her children at any cost.

Even if it meant keeping her children away from the fathers who would love them.