Liar
Thanks for reading and voting guys. I know this was hard for some of you. And as a gift of appreciation, a lighter noted sequel by the end of the week. I hope. If school doesn't get in the way. Or work. Hmmmm....>_>
Title: Liar
Rating: R for violence, language and drunken nations
Genre: Angst. Angst. Angst.
Characters/Pairings: America, mentions of OC!New York
Summary: It's Sept. 11, 2009 and America gets shitfaced trying to not not remember that day.
Words: 2,725 (it's a doozy)
Notes: It's a September 11 fic and there's a God/Chruch/Jesus factor. Break out the tissues.
No. I will never, ever be able to write a happy-ending Hetalia fic. Ever. Don't even bother asking.
He is rum and gin and whiskey and maybe a shot or two of tequilla.
He stumbles on the street after being thrown out for starting yet another bar fight. His lip is swollen and split. There is a streak of blood near his nose and the rest on the back of his wrist. There’s a growing welt on his cheekbone, under the right eye. It’s tender to touch and he has a hard time opening his eye completely because of it.
A few buttons on his wine colored shirt have been ripped off, so the shirt hangs loosely off his body, revealing an increasingly stained white undershirt.
He walks blindly, feet thinking for him, because everything looks like a watercolor in a storm on a Tilt-A-Whirl.
Streetlights make his temples pound. Each step he feels in the smallest, furthest nerve ending. A wave of nausea passes over him. The scar on his stomach, the result of 27 stitches, throbs when stationary, stretches and pulls with movement.
He was with New York that day.
“Hey, Pops! C’mon!” New York says, tugging on his guardian’s arm, trying to get him into the subway station as quickly as possible. “Wuh gonna miss th’train an’ I’m gonna be late fuh work. I can’t afford it today! I gotta meetin’ wit China and Japan at nine-a-clock.”
“I know, New York. I know. D’y’know how long it’s been since I’ve been to Manhattan?”
“You wuh heah last month. C’mon, Pops. I need you to focus. Put the gyro back, we don’ have time for you t’grab food.”
“But-”
“No buts! Come on.” He puts the gyro back on the vender’s counter. A muted white subway train whooshes by and slows to a stop. The doors open and people mass out. Rushing, rushing people. Always going, always coming. Never stopping. On the phone. Off the phone. Buzzing. Beeping. Running. It would annoy some States, but this was New York. There was always something to do. Someone to meet. Some business to attend. He is the State that never sleeps.
New York shoves America on the subway. America glances at his watch; it’s 8:33. They still have plenty of time to get to the Trade Center.
The subway clinks and rattles, and is packed as per usual. There are no open seats, so America and New York stand in the middle mass. America holds an open rod to keep standing. New York, the worn traveler, simply readjusts his weight. The train smells of food, sweat and piss. It always makes America’s nose crinkle, but New York is used to it.
The State is fussing. He nervously brushes non-existent lint from the front of his midnight black suit. He readjusts his red tie. He pops a piece of gum in his mouth and chews fervently. He checks the time on his cell phone, puts it back in his pocket. Double checks the items in his satchel. Counts something on his fingers. Chews the gum.
“Hey, New York,” America says, grinning at the boy’s anxiety.
“What’s up?” He cracks the gum.
“You’re going to be fine. You’ll knock ’em dead. You always do.” New York gives a shy grin and nods. He remains still for the rest of the ride.
The train comes to a stop with a lurch. America takes a glance at the sign: World Trade Center Station E-Corner of Barclay and Church Street. The wave of passengers rushes out like a tsunami’s wave.
Above ground, New York’s stride is long and quick. Soon America is lost in the crowd of those trying to get to the World Trade Center. America looks up at the building and is filled with awe. He remembers when they were first constructed. They look as beautiful now as they did back then. Those majestic structures, the tallest in the world, reaching the pale blue sky like hands trying to touch the face of God.
There’s another tug on his arm, ripping him from his wonder. “Pops! It’s eight-forty. We’ve still got about ten minutes of walkin’ t’do. I’ll leave yeh ass out here’f that’s what y’want.”
“Sorry, New York, I’m coming.”
He stops to duck into an alley. He heaves and releases all that he’s eaten for the past three weeks on the side walk. He blinks a few times to release the tears; runs his not-bloodied wrist over his mouth and rubs the remnants over his jeans. This isn’t the first time this has happened tonight and he fears the stability of his digestive system should it continue.
America points, New York jerks his head back for the hot second it’s in the air. Long enough to see the plane strike the tower’s side. To hear the boom of collapsing steel and windows shattering.
And then the city turns red-New York’s blood on his glasses. The State’s eyes are wide and mouth slightly askew. A red carnation disrupts the crisp white shirt, the midnight blue suit; it’s short, thick diagonal, and deep-much like the laceration of the building. The State collapses in America’s arms.
There’s a rip in his stomach and a trickle of blood runs down his lower abdomen. He almost passes out from the acute pain, but he’s holding New York. He can’t let go. He won’t.
The Nation’s training kicks in. His mind purges itself of everything, to the point where he doesn’t even feel the sun’s heat on his back. He moves automatically. Lowers New York to the ground and sitting him up. Steadies him with his leg. Takes the State’s suit jacket and shirt off. Strips his own shirt, rolls the two.
He wraps the shirt directly over the State’s injury. “Breath,” he commands. The State complies, wheezing the last bits of oxygen from his lungs. The Nation ties the sleeves together.
The raven haired young man lifts his head slightly to look at his Nation.
“What’re y’doin’, Pops?” New York asks, groggy from the blood loss.
“You’re bleeding. I’ve got to stop it.”
“Holy shit, look!” Someone points and there’s a cascade of photographs. America feels a force of needles right above his soul plexus. New York wails as the blood that should have slowed picks up speed again. America looks to the Towers.
Blurs of individuals, careen to the ground or whatever stops them first.
A group of five falls, gripping to each other in a circle. It is their last look and feel of humanity before their ten second flight comes to a halt.
“Shit-Can I get some help here?” America screams to anyone who will hear him. Those who can tear themselves from the carnage turn to him. A man whips off a button up and throws it to America, who quickly ties it around New York’s chest. A woman hands him water. There’s an off-duty paramedic who speaks to the State in that Kindergarten teacher voice doctors have, telling him he’ll be all right and to keep talking. Talk and let us know you’re still with us.
There’s a thunderous boom when the second plane runs into the South Tower.
His stomach cleaves; it’s the easiest and cleanest way to describe what happened. He lurches forward, regurgitates blood.
A shower of debris, dust, glass and scrap metal and screams.
He’s gone deaf-had to have. His ears ring. Or is it his people’s shrieks in the wake of something terrible?
Or is it his screams over them?
When he’s stable, he slides off the wall and continues his walk. He lets his feet do most of the thinking, turning hither, banking thither. His mind is elsewhere, despite the gratuitous amount of alcohol he’s consumed in the past two hours. A wind from the east makes him wish for his beloved jacket, but it’s in the apartment, somewhere far, far away from here.
New York shrieks into his undershirt. Latches to him like a newborn child. Trembles. Fresh blood drips from the make-shift bandages. Dripping on America’s sneakers, on his undershirt, on his arms, his hands. Dripping on the bystanders who have helped.
The State sobs. His shoulders heave as he shakes violently. He coughs and blood from his mouth joins the mix of saliva, sweat and tears.
“C-can’t stay h-here,” America says to the bawling State. His head pounds. The weight New York puts on his torso is excruciating. His vision constantly blurs and refocuses. He’s spinning, but stationary. He’s nauseous and tired. Exhausted.
America pulls the State into a fireman’s carry and shuffle-walks. People run past him, trying to get away from the towers, to air, to clean, to sanity. Fire engines screech. Helicopters buzz, unable to help those who wave and beg for deliverance. News anchors, feeling the story they report for once, are hushed, quietly praying as they detail this morning.
Papers flutter from the sky like delicate butterflies whose wings are clipped.
But the Towers still stand. That New York stubbornness grafted into the steel sheets, as if to tell whoever did this we’ll never back down from you. Ever.
The smoke, like church incense wafting to the heavens, a request of intervention, of penance, of solace.
They’ve made it to Broadway now, that’s at least another block. He wants to try for another, but he stops on that corner. He stops to spit out another mouthful of blood and bile; he isn’t sure how much else he can give. He takes a moment to glance at his watch-9:42. It’s only been forty minutes since they got off the train?
He takes another step-shuffle and it feels as if a metal rod has impaled itself into his head. Blood runs down his face, into his eyes. Throbbing. White hot sensation. His head. Knowledge. Intelligence. Was it the CIA? No, no. The Pentagon.
His vision isn’t blurring anymore. It’s darkening. Tunnel vision. Dark. Light. Dark. Light.
He hears the shuffle of New Yorkers coming to help the stranger up. Some speak English, telling him he’ll be all right and they’ll take him to their apartment to wait out this madness. Others don’t speak English, but it doesn’t matter; they’re his people too and he understands their words. Unconsciousness is slowly winning this tug-of-war and he’s dragged further into the Hudson of muddled feeling, sight and sound.
Dark. Light. Before he and Tony are taken inside, there’s a groan of metal; sounds like a monster from English fairytales and Grecian myths. He’s stopped and they watch.
Dark. He can’t see it, but he hears it. The scream of metal. The rush of ash and sulfur and steel racing through the streets, covering everything and everybody in its wake. The impossible. A volcano in the City. An earthquake in New York.
Light. He’s inside a building with flickering lights and walls that keep the debris out. Where’s Tony, he wants to ask but his tongue too heavy. Where’s Anthony and is he all right? He’s sat down; his back leans on a wall and he breathes. He looks at his glasses, cracked and caked with dirt and blood.
Someone, a child, a being who does not understand what is death, what evil is or what is happening around her. She clutches to his leg, afraid and asks the question everyone wants to know the answer to. Someone else, her brother, maybe a cousin, someone older (but not quite an adult) begins to treat the burns and cuts with water, soap and hydrogen peroxide. The tingling chemical doesn’t hurt. Nothing else can hurt after this.
Dark. So much dirt, he hears a mumble. Won’t ever be clean with this. He can’t make out the girl’s name, but the boy asks her to get a sponge. Probably need stitches too, but I don’t have the equipment. Don’t go to sleep on me. There’s a slap on his cheeks and his eyelids flutter open slightly.
Light. He’s awake and quite aware when the second tower collapses. A new wound streaks across his abdomen, slightly above the first. He’s on fire, been spit through the gates of Hell onto Lucifer’s tongs. His insides will fall out, he’s sure of this. He grunts and breathes through his teeth, rugged and chinked. He can’t want to scream in front of his people. To let them hear the shrieks of their Nation as his people die from a phantom, faceless ghost. He can’t do that.
There’s a scream from the room’s other end. It’s loud and echoes. A scream that turns into continued sobs. A scream that America clings to because his State has made a sound so that means he’s still alive.
The room is spinning. Spinning so fast he can’t. He feels like he’s going to throw up, but for all intents and purposes, he’s not sure if his stomach is still an internal organ or if he has anything else to give.
A section of the Pentagon collapses and the laceration on his forehead splits.
Light. Spinning. Wavy. Spinning.
Dark.
He stops in front of a building.
“S-saint Ch-Chris-to-p-her Cat…cat…Cath-o-lic Church.” He blinks and chuckles. “Cath-o-lics have wine. Hope i's not tha’ French shit. Sonoma wine isss better.”
He doesn’t quite remember how to walk up stairs, nor how to use a doorknob when he finally gets there. He’s surprised when it opens with a clink. He stumbles inside, making acquaintance first with a glass bowl fixed to a wooden structure. A bit of water dribbles on his shirt. He curses and gropes for something to latch to, something that will guide him to that fancy Catholic wine.
America is a religious nation and he’s a relatively religious man, but he is a bit perturbed by the image of a dying Christ on the cross.
“Hey,” he says, pointing to the Christ. “You were…you were s’posed to have risen and shit. Not…not still be up there you know.”
America leans on a pew and glances down the row. Maybe the wine is here? He looks across the aisle, but his eyes stop again in the center.
“A-and there’s an-another thing I have to tell you.” He takes a step forward, teeters and steadies himself. “What the fuck did I do wrong? You know? I-I was just having a good ole time rubbing Russia’s face in the dirt, that bastard. The nineties were good t’me. Good. To. Me. Why…why did you take it away?
“Y-You, Sssssir are a cheat. A cheat and a liar,” he stumbles on the edge of a pew and falls forward. His right knee breaks the fall. He’s kneeling.
“Didn’t You say, ‘do not be afraid, I am with you’? You said that, You said that and where were You in September? In October? In March? Spain’s oneuv your bigges’ fans-he’s fucking Cath-o-lic-where were you? And England? He’s like my father, that stupid sonuvabitch. He might not worship You as much as he used to, but you didn’t have to throw bombs at him eith…ei-too.”
His eyes prickle with tears. He wipes them away bitterly with the back of his not bloodied wrist. He rubs his knee.
“Everything keeps blowing up in my face. All the…all the time and people keep leaving me and…and I don’t even know if it’s worth it anymore. Don’t even know if it’s worth it…”
He runs his hands through his hair and sighs shakily.
“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be a fucking world power when I broke free from England. I didn’t ask to be the Chosen One who fixes every fucking problem on every fucking corner of the world and if I don’t do anything I get fucking shit from everyone but if I do, they still shit on me. I didn’t ask for this God. I didn’t ask for it!”
I can’t handle it anymore, he wants to scream. Give this cross to someone else, God. Not me, please; not me.
His stomach throbs, the old scars on fire. He clutches his torso and feels something warm slip down his cheeks. He bows his head and sobs. All of which he was trying to hide, to keep inside, spilling, breaking, shattering.
“I didn’t ask for it,” he croaks. “Two thousand people in towers didn’t ask for it. Hundred twenty five in the Pentagon didn’t ask for it. United 93 didn’t…didn’t ask for it.”
His shoulders convulse.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.