Farewell to Lumina [4a/??]
anonymous
June 22 2009, 10:17:30 UTC
Anon apologizes for the delay! Some stuff came up and I also wanted to put in some research too so that I don't go in completely overwhelmed 0.o
There's some swearing this time but I'm sure you all heard the f-bomb dropped before. Oh and some offensive-ness maybe...?
Also I would just like to say: I was (and still am) nervous about writing England, scared about writing America, and terrified about writing real people. In other words, I'm sorry for any OOC-ness you may see as well as gratuitous use of historical figures ;;
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America wiped the sweat from his brows.
He’d watched England throw-up painfully onto the other side of the bed, called for a nurse or a doctor or someone as soon as the last of his meal hit the floor, then stood at the foot of the bed while clinging onto the railings as they replaced his ruined bandages then injected him with so many syringes that America was sure England couldn’t possibly stay awake for more then two minutes.
And as he predicted, England gradually fell into a fitful sleep.
He’d thought about asking the nurses for restraints just in case England decided to try that again, but the room had been emptied as soon as he’d blinked. Besides-- his eyes found the bandages peaking out from England’s collar, the ones that bound his arm, and ones on his legs that were hidden at the moment-- it felt wrong to do that now. He’d made a promise anyway.
Silence permeated the room, everything perfectly still. The only indication that time was still moving were the busy footsteps echoing outside the door, the occasional hurried whispers between nurses or doctors or whoever. And the only thing in the room that was worth looking at (the only thing his eyes could find) was England.
Staring at his covered face, America felt everything collapse inward. Relief? Realization? He didn’t know what it was: it just felt like he didn’t need to pretend anymore. There was sweat still gleaning on England’s white skin, like porcelain except he didn’t make such a pretty doll. Not like this anyway. Those eyebrows too: the bandages were so thick that he could barely make out the top of them. Gulping, America desperately hoped that they were as monstrously thick as before.
The young nation sighed as he rubbed his temple. God, how had everything gone so wrong? England wasn’t supposed to… He’d given him everything that he’d needed, and he had been confident that England would use them well. He’d done everything he could without getting himself involved. But that was probably the mistake wasn’t it? If he had joined in at the beginning as England was expecting him to, he wouldn’t be laying here b-- he couldn’t even think it. And he’d been so stupid, worrying about getting involved with Europe again. At the same time, he couldn’t ignore that his people had been so reluctant to join in the conflict; he was a nation and it just didn’t work like that. What they thought was what he thought, right? Still, if he had just been there, been there ready to fight back with him this morning--
There's some swearing this time but I'm sure you all heard the f-bomb dropped before. Oh and some offensive-ness maybe...?
Also I would just like to say: I was (and still am) nervous about writing England, scared about writing America, and terrified about writing real people. In other words, I'm sorry for any OOC-ness you may see as well as gratuitous use of historical figures ;;
-------------
America wiped the sweat from his brows.
He’d watched England throw-up painfully onto the other side of the bed, called for a nurse or a doctor or someone as soon as the last of his meal hit the floor, then stood at the foot of the bed while clinging onto the railings as they replaced his ruined bandages then injected him with so many syringes that America was sure England couldn’t possibly stay awake for more then two minutes.
And as he predicted, England gradually fell into a fitful sleep.
He’d thought about asking the nurses for restraints just in case England decided to try that again, but the room had been emptied as soon as he’d blinked. Besides-- his eyes found the bandages peaking out from England’s collar, the ones that bound his arm, and ones on his legs that were hidden at the moment-- it felt wrong to do that now. He’d made a promise anyway.
Silence permeated the room, everything perfectly still. The only indication that time was still moving were the busy footsteps echoing outside the door, the occasional hurried whispers between nurses or doctors or whoever. And the only thing in the room that was worth looking at (the only thing his eyes could find) was England.
Staring at his covered face, America felt everything collapse inward. Relief? Realization? He didn’t know what it was: it just felt like he didn’t need to pretend anymore. There was sweat still gleaning on England’s white skin, like porcelain except he didn’t make such a pretty doll. Not like this anyway. Those eyebrows too: the bandages were so thick that he could barely make out the top of them. Gulping, America desperately hoped that they were as monstrously thick as before.
The young nation sighed as he rubbed his temple. God, how had everything gone so wrong? England wasn’t supposed to… He’d given him everything that he’d needed, and he had been confident that England would use them well. He’d done everything he could without getting himself involved. But that was probably the mistake wasn’t it? If he had joined in at the beginning as England was expecting him to, he wouldn’t be laying here b-- he couldn’t even think it. And he’d been so stupid, worrying about getting involved with Europe again. At the same time, he couldn’t ignore that his people had been so reluctant to join in the conflict; he was a nation and it just didn’t work like that. What they thought was what he thought, right? Still, if he had just been there, been there ready to fight back with him this morning--
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