Unpromised Home

a jar of dirt

'in which you regret nothing'

The dirt scatters across the floor. A plume of dust hung in the air. Its slow sink to the ground was the only instance of movement in the hallway. You didn't dare move as you stare at the stunned country.

This was not your best plan, if you were to be honest. To state the obvious, you were utterly screwed. You, a human, just threw a potted plant at the country who only minutes ago, stated that he would kill you if he got the chance. Not the brightest idea to hand him that chance in a brightly coloured ribbon.

The plastic plant pot lays on its side a few feet behind America, the dead plant that once lived in it sat a few feet to the side of him. His sunglasses were strewn in the same place, entangled in the leaves, and coated in a dusting of dirt. The dust in the air had settled to the floor along with something significantly more sinister, America's anger.

The look he gives you as he recovers from his shock is one that will be engrained into your mind for the rest of your life. His rage was chiseled onto his face with the staying power of centuries-old statues. His brow furrows downwards, accompanying the glare that attempts to cut you down to the floor. He grits his teeth, clenching a fist tightly by his side.

"You..."

"Me?" The tone you respond with caught you off guard. You really have a death wish now, but the fear you felt sneaking around earlier fails to even claim a spot in the emotions you were experiencing at that moment. You, much like America is, are angry. Who does he think he is, really?

"You bitch."

"Aw... Ouchy." You can't stop yourself from laughing at the threatening tone that laces its way into Americas words. Maybe your fear deciding to take five wasn't the best outcome for you, "Was that supposed to be a threat? Because I am trembling in my boots."

America's glare hardens further, if that was even possible. His anger was building like a pressure cooker bomb, seconds away from blowing his lid and lashing out at you. You were always told to never play with fire, and yet here you were standing in the blast zone, lighting the fuse. A smirk crosses your face. You want to say it was involuntary, but you're smarter than that.

"Do you know what you've just done?!" He snarls, taking a few steps towards you. You cross your arms, raising a brow. The smirk falls from your face despite your attempt to maintain your confidence.

"What? Signed my own death warrant? I thought I already did that." Your muscles stiffen, and the hairs on your arms prickle, "You were the one waiting for the go ahead."

The more you look at him, the more this scenario returns in it's familiarity. The rage on his face, the anger, it held the same deranged look it held when you first met. Yes, you lit the fuse, but there was no way you were getting out of blast range in time.

"What? Afraid?" This time, he was the one laughing, "Isn't this familiar? That look of fear suits you."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me anomaly" You shudder under the tone of his words, "I'm not sure what it's like where you're from, but around here, we have a chain of command. Would you like to know who sits at the top of it?" You open your mouth to respond, coming to a blank and glancing around the hall, "It's me. Every little thing in this building passes by me. Big, small, insignificant. Nothing enters or exits this building without my say so. Everything came under my control, with no exceptions. Until you came along."

"Maybe that's for the better. Someone needs to knock you off your stupid high horse."

"And you think it's your job to do that?" He laughs dryly, "You?"