February 3, 2012. 3:00 AM
America sits at the bank of the river, a gun pointed at his head. England stares down at him with sadness as the young woman surges forward. America screams her name, screams for her to stay away, to stay back. He doesn't want to see it again, like he does every night. Still, she runs forward. Her brown hair cascades down her back, her pale pink lips drawn into a thin line. Her hazel eyes glitter with determination. Her white dress billows out behind her, and her shoes slip off her feet as she runs through the feild. America is screaming so hard he thinks his lungs will burst, as she jumps in front of him. The gun goes off, and Abigail falls into America's arms, dead. England reaches out and shakes him.
"Wake up!" England yells.
"Huh-?"
America is jolted from his nightmare as someone shouts his name. His eyes flutter open and meet bright green ones. England. His face is twisted into a look of concern, looking at the pale-faced American. Tears fall from America's eyes.
"You were dreaming about that night..." England says, slowly.
"N-no I wasn't!" The taller nation protests.
"You were screaming. You said her name over and over again..."
"I-I...."
England wipes a tear away from his eye. "I had no idea it caused you this much pain." He says weakly, a guilty look spreading across his face.
"It's fine, Iggy. I don't care. I'm totally over it. Heroes don't live in the past, right!"
"Guess I'm not much of a hero, then."
"Huh?"
"I think about it all the time. I think about what I did. You loved her, but I was blinded by my anger to even think about how much it would hurt. I just wanted you to be.... to be alone."
"E-england."
"I'm sorry, America." England says, looking up at hamburger-loving man in front of him.
"Thank you." America says, his voice falling so it is barely a whisper.
England sighs and looks at him. "Did you..." He pauses. America stares at him expectatantly, "Nevermind." The brit says, "Night, America." He walks out of the room.
February 3, 2012. 4:10 AM
America finally drifts off to sleep.
Her brown hair is put up elaboratley and two small curls fall, framing her face. A pair of silver pearl earrings dangle from her ears. Her slender face has turned a shade of pink as the young man holds his arms out to her, smiling. She smiles back and walks down the steps, her pink heels clicking with each step. Her dress glides down the stairs along with her petite footsteps until she reaches the American. She thanks Alfred for buying her the most beautiful clothes she has ever worn.
"Abigail," He says, "You look absolutley ravishing." He smiles, a peice of his sandy brown hair falling into his eyes.
"As do you, Alfred." She says, recahing up to brush the stary hair away from his face, which was perfect in her opinion. His blue eyes glitter as he leads her the rest of the way down the stairs. Everyone in the room stares as the pair make their way down, whispering.
"Isn't that woman just a peasant?" "What is she doing here with such a fine young man?" "Why would he take her to the ball?" "Isn't this only for classy people?"
Alfred ignores them, and leads Abigail out to the dancefloor. The band begins to play a soft symphony. Alfred smiles down at the young woman, her hazel eyes gazing back up at him. Alfred spins her around, watching as her dress fans out. It's petal pink, and when it fans out, it reminds Alfred of a flower, opening up in the springtime. Abigail recoils into Alfred's arms, her hair brushing his chin. A warm, tingling sensation runs through him, and he smiles down at her.
