[fan fic] Ash
Title: Ash
Rating: R
Genre: General, Horror
Characters/Pairings: America, England
Summary: America looses his mind
Words: 2049
Notes: I just read A Streetcar Named Desire for English class and this was inspired 100% by it. If you've read the play or seen the movie, I have little references to the piece and you'll be able to spot them out. This is my first time writing something scary, so if you have any suggestions on making it creepier, I'll take em! ^^Thanks to strawberryburst for beta-ing. ^^ :D
Arthur? England? Arthur. Turn off the light. I don’t like the light. I look awful in it. It’s the new scars from the War. Make my face look frightful. I suppose I shouldn’t have stepped in front of that mortar, but if I hadn’t, then I would have lost three hundred or so, I suppose. I didn’t used to have these scars. My face used to be soft and smooth like China’s silk or India’s cotton or a child’s face. I had a child’s face. I was young, once.
Why are you only standing at the door? Shouldn’t you come in? I’ve fried chicken on the stove. Do you want some, England? I knew you’d be coming in. You always come in when things go bad back home, for you, not for me. Chicken and lemonade? You don’t like the chicken? England. Arthur. England. Won’t you come inside? The wind is loud and the light from the street is coming in. Please. I don’t like the light. I like the dark. The dark is my requiem, my sleep and my joy. My sleep. I must have slept once or twice a couple weeks ago. I can’t really remember. Everything’s been happening so fast.
Don’t stumble in here with your shoes on, England. Arthur, England, Arthur, you’ll get dirt on the carpet. You silly thing. Don’t you remember? You’re the one who taught me that. Or was it Japan? It might have been Japan. In any case, you are forgiven if in fact Japan taught me to take my shoes off when I enter a building. I believe you are forgiven.
My, my, my, Arthur. England. Arthur. Father. When did you last eat? Why, your cheeks have sunken further than my bottom line, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. And you’ve stopped shaving. Why? You look awful with a beard-your ripened-peach flesh with ale-froth whiskers; your beard is the same color as your face. Why have you done that? You’ve never been one for facial hair. Has France begun to rub off on you? I’ve always heard that married couples do so.
Have you seen Matthew? You may sit anywhere in the parlor. I shall fetch your chicken and your lemonade. Or would you prefer tea? Keep talking please, I’ll only be in the kitchen. I can still hear you. There we are. Fried chicken. Yes, fried chicken for the fried soul of Europe. How are you doing, by the way, Arthur? Father. Arthur. England. How are you doing?
I’m doing fine. Of course I’m doing fine. I’m America. I’m Alfred Jones. I’m your son. I’m doing fine. Just as the field mouse is fine to an owl. I’m doing wonderfully. Money. I can’t begin to tell you how much money I found. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t found that coffer before! It was tucked away, far, far away, like it didn’t want to be found, like it was playing a long game of hide-and-seek. Do you know who had it this whole time? My Jewish friend! Yes, Esther had it. She’s been living with me again since her home was swallowed by a Leviathan. What a wonderful and nice friend she is, don’t you agree. Just giving it to me like that. My Jewish friend. My funny Jewish friend.
Arthur, do you know what fire smells like? It smells like hickory and like leather. Like a million wildflowers lifting off from this great, great, plentiful world and leaping into the fields of heavens. You still believe in heaven, don’t you, England? Or did you abolish your belief in an Eden when you turned your back on God and everything that was faithful and good in this world?
I also have rich friends. And poor ones, too. They say they don’t have any money, the poor ones, but if you just keep asking, they’ll eventually help you out. Why? Because they love me. They know who I am and they love me. They love me so much that they would forfeit their children and their homes in my name. Their very children, England. Lovely, lovely children. But so many mouths to feed. Do you know how much money it takes to feed a child from cradle to grave? Billions, England. Billions, Arthur. So much money.
I have old friends too. Old friends and Catholic friends. Catholics are the most peculiar bunch of them all. They once burned those who didn’t believe in their ways. Their wrong ways. Their cannibal ways. Their devious ways. I have their money now. Money they would have given to the Pope and their family members in Mexico. Mexico. I have a wall up now, England. Like the one that separates you and Scotland. But mine isn’t made of stone. It’s got infrared cameras and microwave sensors in the ground that sense when people walk over the spot. And it heats up and it heats up and it heats up and if you’ve made it to the center of the wave, you won’t cross it because your brain will melt like a crayon on a Texas sidewalk in the middle of August.
They’re like the sensors at drive-thrus, England. Arthur, Father. Let’s go to McDonald’s. You used to love that place, even though you said you hated it.
Do you know what I hate, England, sweet Father who raised me in my youth? Do you know what I hate? I hate unclean things. Look around. It’s dark and it’s clean. It’s dark, but I’ll never stumble through here because it is clean. Everything is in its place. Organized. Beautiful in its simplicity. Where is Detroit? Why do you ask? It’s right where it should be. In its place. All together. I put the pieces back myself. Every single one of them. I put the arm of a child back in its socket. She was dead already though. Dead like the ash which she breathed in with her last breath. Choked on smoke. Ash. Not nuclear fumes. Smoke. Just a smoke.
Where are my subways? Away. No one travels anymore, England. No one. They’re all asleep, the ones in New York. The ones in Detroit. In Houston. They’re asleep. Asleep. Asleep perchance to dream. To sleep, perchance to dream. That was one of yours, wasn’t it, England. Sweet England. My father. My caretaker. Why do you shy from me? You can’t see my face can you? The scars, I know the scars are revolting. They disgust me too sometimes.
England, Arthur, England, where have you gone? Why do you stumble through the house? Everything is where it should be. It’s in order. A peaceful mess. You should never trip. I never trip. Can you see me limp? Can you see my limp? No, no you can’t because I never hit anything when I walk down here. I am clean and coordinated and cool and collected and nothing is impossible for me because I am America and I will prevail.
There you are, silly England. Do you know what fire smells like? I’ve already asked, haven’t I? I think Germany knows what it smells like. I think Russia and Ukraine and Belarus know too. Prussia might. Prussia would know, but he was a half-breed and he finally buckled under the pressure of the ash and the dust and the dirty, dirty, dirty dirt. I have a paper lantern here in this room, so you can turn the light on. Look at the wall, what a lovely color I’ve painted it, yes England? Yes, I have painted it a lovely nice color. A shade of red. The color of sunsets. I like sunsets. I like endings. Don’t you England? Dear, sweet England, don’t you?
And this wall? It’s covered with the faces of my presidents-Washington and Franklin. Lots of Franklins. He wasn’t a president though, but don’t you enjoy this color? I love it so. I couldn’t get it just right so I had to put four layers down. Four layers of Franklin and Hamilton and Jefferson and Washington. And Grant. A few Grants. It’s hard to find those nowadays. The Grants. Treasures. You should hold onto them if you find one. And what do I have here? An American mark. A mark that guarantees water when the well fills up again.
Have you ever seen someone, England, sweet England, beautiful Arthur, without water for days? They wrinkle up like a tomato, I’m sorry-tomahto-in the sun. They just shrink and wither up like a Shrinky-Dink, but not nearly as fun to play with or as fun to watch. I haven’t had anything to drink in a few days. Not new water. We’ve plenty reusable water though. See, you put a packet in and swirl it up and up and up until the dirt goes away and it’s clean. So clean and see through and no one gets sick from this. Everyone is happy. I’m happy. I’m fine. I’m fine, England. Arthur, aren’t you fine too?
Where is Matthew? It must have only been three weeks ago that I last saw him. We were in Maine. Looking for Christmas trees. I wanted a Christmas tree, was certain that I’d find one and I’d find one with him because Christmas trees need to be found with family members, there is no exception to that rule. Have you seen my Canada? We put a wall up there too. The one with microwaves. You could roast a steak with those microwaves from about three miles away, but then you might lose your arm reaching for it. My arm? No. My arm isn’t broken England. Arthur, why would my arm be broken?
I shan’t eat until I see that you’ve eaten everything on your plate, Arthur. Do you want me to starve? Eat something. Eat for the love of all things good which you stopped believing in and punished those who did believe. An edict from the Prime Minister, the man who had dethroned the Throned, a man, just a man, who promised food and security, for men are at their lowest and will listen to anyone when he is hungry and when he is afraid. My God did not take away my God. My God came from on high, my beloved Jesus Christ has returned and there he sits in those hallowed, virgin halls, and from his gavel do words from the most holy of holies fly. He speaks daily to us, and we are so lucky to have him and lead us through these too-bright days.
He guides me, England. Father. Arthur. England, he guides me. He holds my hand and walks me through the fire, like you used to. Come home, you used to say. Come home and I’ll make you a spot of tea and we’ll drink to the health of the King and you’ll tell me stories about the Knights until I fell asleep, so sound, so young, so clean on your shoulders. Where is Matthew? Where is my cousin? Where is my beloved cousin whom I once shared a border with? Where is my cousin?
Do you know where he is, England? Father. You wouldn’t keep something like this from me, yes? You would tell me if you knew where Matthew was. You’d tell me. You’d tell me.
Do you hear that? That sound? It sounds like a whistle. A whistle from the past. It shrieks it shreds through the air, through my dark and pristine night. What is that sound, Arthur? England, what is that sound? Where do these sounds come from? I hear them all the time. All through the brave night and through the day, I hear these noises. I hear the sounds. My God cannot take them away. He plagues me with these sounds so I may repent and learn and return to my God, but I have England, I have.
Do you know what fire smells like? It smells like a house of roaches being cleared. It smells like money. Money and passion and sex and everything that is bad and awful in this world because if they’re bad, then it’s ok if the fire smells funny, if the smoke has a strange hickory and leather scent. It is fine. I am fine.
I am fine.
Rating: R
Genre: General, Horror
Characters/Pairings: America, England
Summary: America looses his mind
Words: 2049
Notes: I just read A Streetcar Named Desire for English class and this was inspired 100% by it. If you've read the play or seen the movie, I have little references to the piece and you'll be able to spot them out. This is my first time writing something scary, so if you have any suggestions on making it creepier, I'll take em! ^^Thanks to strawberryburst for beta-ing. ^^ :D
Arthur? England? Arthur. Turn off the light. I don’t like the light. I look awful in it. It’s the new scars from the War. Make my face look frightful. I suppose I shouldn’t have stepped in front of that mortar, but if I hadn’t, then I would have lost three hundred or so, I suppose. I didn’t used to have these scars. My face used to be soft and smooth like China’s silk or India’s cotton or a child’s face. I had a child’s face. I was young, once.
Why are you only standing at the door? Shouldn’t you come in? I’ve fried chicken on the stove. Do you want some, England? I knew you’d be coming in. You always come in when things go bad back home, for you, not for me. Chicken and lemonade? You don’t like the chicken? England. Arthur. England. Won’t you come inside? The wind is loud and the light from the street is coming in. Please. I don’t like the light. I like the dark. The dark is my requiem, my sleep and my joy. My sleep. I must have slept once or twice a couple weeks ago. I can’t really remember. Everything’s been happening so fast.
Don’t stumble in here with your shoes on, England. Arthur, England, Arthur, you’ll get dirt on the carpet. You silly thing. Don’t you remember? You’re the one who taught me that. Or was it Japan? It might have been Japan. In any case, you are forgiven if in fact Japan taught me to take my shoes off when I enter a building. I believe you are forgiven.
My, my, my, Arthur. England. Arthur. Father. When did you last eat? Why, your cheeks have sunken further than my bottom line, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. And you’ve stopped shaving. Why? You look awful with a beard-your ripened-peach flesh with ale-froth whiskers; your beard is the same color as your face. Why have you done that? You’ve never been one for facial hair. Has France begun to rub off on you? I’ve always heard that married couples do so.
Have you seen Matthew? You may sit anywhere in the parlor. I shall fetch your chicken and your lemonade. Or would you prefer tea? Keep talking please, I’ll only be in the kitchen. I can still hear you. There we are. Fried chicken. Yes, fried chicken for the fried soul of Europe. How are you doing, by the way, Arthur? Father. Arthur. England. How are you doing?
I’m doing fine. Of course I’m doing fine. I’m America. I’m Alfred Jones. I’m your son. I’m doing fine. Just as the field mouse is fine to an owl. I’m doing wonderfully. Money. I can’t begin to tell you how much money I found. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t found that coffer before! It was tucked away, far, far away, like it didn’t want to be found, like it was playing a long game of hide-and-seek. Do you know who had it this whole time? My Jewish friend! Yes, Esther had it. She’s been living with me again since her home was swallowed by a Leviathan. What a wonderful and nice friend she is, don’t you agree. Just giving it to me like that. My Jewish friend. My funny Jewish friend.
Arthur, do you know what fire smells like? It smells like hickory and like leather. Like a million wildflowers lifting off from this great, great, plentiful world and leaping into the fields of heavens. You still believe in heaven, don’t you, England? Or did you abolish your belief in an Eden when you turned your back on God and everything that was faithful and good in this world?
I also have rich friends. And poor ones, too. They say they don’t have any money, the poor ones, but if you just keep asking, they’ll eventually help you out. Why? Because they love me. They know who I am and they love me. They love me so much that they would forfeit their children and their homes in my name. Their very children, England. Lovely, lovely children. But so many mouths to feed. Do you know how much money it takes to feed a child from cradle to grave? Billions, England. Billions, Arthur. So much money.
I have old friends too. Old friends and Catholic friends. Catholics are the most peculiar bunch of them all. They once burned those who didn’t believe in their ways. Their wrong ways. Their cannibal ways. Their devious ways. I have their money now. Money they would have given to the Pope and their family members in Mexico. Mexico. I have a wall up now, England. Like the one that separates you and Scotland. But mine isn’t made of stone. It’s got infrared cameras and microwave sensors in the ground that sense when people walk over the spot. And it heats up and it heats up and it heats up and if you’ve made it to the center of the wave, you won’t cross it because your brain will melt like a crayon on a Texas sidewalk in the middle of August.
They’re like the sensors at drive-thrus, England. Arthur, Father. Let’s go to McDonald’s. You used to love that place, even though you said you hated it.
Do you know what I hate, England, sweet Father who raised me in my youth? Do you know what I hate? I hate unclean things. Look around. It’s dark and it’s clean. It’s dark, but I’ll never stumble through here because it is clean. Everything is in its place. Organized. Beautiful in its simplicity. Where is Detroit? Why do you ask? It’s right where it should be. In its place. All together. I put the pieces back myself. Every single one of them. I put the arm of a child back in its socket. She was dead already though. Dead like the ash which she breathed in with her last breath. Choked on smoke. Ash. Not nuclear fumes. Smoke. Just a smoke.
Where are my subways? Away. No one travels anymore, England. No one. They’re all asleep, the ones in New York. The ones in Detroit. In Houston. They’re asleep. Asleep. Asleep perchance to dream. To sleep, perchance to dream. That was one of yours, wasn’t it, England. Sweet England. My father. My caretaker. Why do you shy from me? You can’t see my face can you? The scars, I know the scars are revolting. They disgust me too sometimes.
England, Arthur, England, where have you gone? Why do you stumble through the house? Everything is where it should be. It’s in order. A peaceful mess. You should never trip. I never trip. Can you see me limp? Can you see my limp? No, no you can’t because I never hit anything when I walk down here. I am clean and coordinated and cool and collected and nothing is impossible for me because I am America and I will prevail.
There you are, silly England. Do you know what fire smells like? I’ve already asked, haven’t I? I think Germany knows what it smells like. I think Russia and Ukraine and Belarus know too. Prussia might. Prussia would know, but he was a half-breed and he finally buckled under the pressure of the ash and the dust and the dirty, dirty, dirty dirt. I have a paper lantern here in this room, so you can turn the light on. Look at the wall, what a lovely color I’ve painted it, yes England? Yes, I have painted it a lovely nice color. A shade of red. The color of sunsets. I like sunsets. I like endings. Don’t you England? Dear, sweet England, don’t you?
And this wall? It’s covered with the faces of my presidents-Washington and Franklin. Lots of Franklins. He wasn’t a president though, but don’t you enjoy this color? I love it so. I couldn’t get it just right so I had to put four layers down. Four layers of Franklin and Hamilton and Jefferson and Washington. And Grant. A few Grants. It’s hard to find those nowadays. The Grants. Treasures. You should hold onto them if you find one. And what do I have here? An American mark. A mark that guarantees water when the well fills up again.
Have you ever seen someone, England, sweet England, beautiful Arthur, without water for days? They wrinkle up like a tomato, I’m sorry-tomahto-in the sun. They just shrink and wither up like a Shrinky-Dink, but not nearly as fun to play with or as fun to watch. I haven’t had anything to drink in a few days. Not new water. We’ve plenty reusable water though. See, you put a packet in and swirl it up and up and up until the dirt goes away and it’s clean. So clean and see through and no one gets sick from this. Everyone is happy. I’m happy. I’m fine. I’m fine, England. Arthur, aren’t you fine too?
Where is Matthew? It must have only been three weeks ago that I last saw him. We were in Maine. Looking for Christmas trees. I wanted a Christmas tree, was certain that I’d find one and I’d find one with him because Christmas trees need to be found with family members, there is no exception to that rule. Have you seen my Canada? We put a wall up there too. The one with microwaves. You could roast a steak with those microwaves from about three miles away, but then you might lose your arm reaching for it. My arm? No. My arm isn’t broken England. Arthur, why would my arm be broken?
I shan’t eat until I see that you’ve eaten everything on your plate, Arthur. Do you want me to starve? Eat something. Eat for the love of all things good which you stopped believing in and punished those who did believe. An edict from the Prime Minister, the man who had dethroned the Throned, a man, just a man, who promised food and security, for men are at their lowest and will listen to anyone when he is hungry and when he is afraid. My God did not take away my God. My God came from on high, my beloved Jesus Christ has returned and there he sits in those hallowed, virgin halls, and from his gavel do words from the most holy of holies fly. He speaks daily to us, and we are so lucky to have him and lead us through these too-bright days.
He guides me, England. Father. Arthur. England, he guides me. He holds my hand and walks me through the fire, like you used to. Come home, you used to say. Come home and I’ll make you a spot of tea and we’ll drink to the health of the King and you’ll tell me stories about the Knights until I fell asleep, so sound, so young, so clean on your shoulders. Where is Matthew? Where is my cousin? Where is my beloved cousin whom I once shared a border with? Where is my cousin?
Do you know where he is, England? Father. You wouldn’t keep something like this from me, yes? You would tell me if you knew where Matthew was. You’d tell me. You’d tell me.
Do you hear that? That sound? It sounds like a whistle. A whistle from the past. It shrieks it shreds through the air, through my dark and pristine night. What is that sound, Arthur? England, what is that sound? Where do these sounds come from? I hear them all the time. All through the brave night and through the day, I hear these noises. I hear the sounds. My God cannot take them away. He plagues me with these sounds so I may repent and learn and return to my God, but I have England, I have.
Do you know what fire smells like? It smells like a house of roaches being cleared. It smells like money. Money and passion and sex and everything that is bad and awful in this world because if they’re bad, then it’s ok if the fire smells funny, if the smoke has a strange hickory and leather scent. It is fine. I am fine.
I am fine.