Dont They Feel Lifeless?

(OOC: Okay, this turned out WAY longer than I expected it to... anyway, you dont have to jump in if you dont wanna read all of that... it's just something I've been itching to write, cause America isn't all hyper all of the time... so, I just wanted to write about a serious America. <3

And sorry if I got some turboculosis wrong, I really have no idea how to write about it, so I just wrote what I've experienced with asthma... on a MUCH larger scale)

The lights of a hospital seem lifeless.
But this is not a hospital. This is a tunnel. There should be cars going down this road. The yellow lines beneath his combat boots hurt his eyes and he has to squint to block out most of the bright lights evenly placed on the ceiling. How can people drive down this? It's almost as blinding as trying to drive when the sun is setting directly into your eyes instead of hanging proud overhead. Only these lights are not going to go down in a few hours. He's moving forward but his legs are pushing themselves. His mind is a low hum in the background, throwing random observations to the front of his mind. He wants to stop and take his eyes to the ashpalt below. But he can't. If he does, he'll fall forward. He already has twice. What caught me? He faintly remembered the touch of cold stone under his fingertips when he leaned against the wall. His words were supposed to be a thought. He only intended for it to be a thought. Instead his lips moved with dull clarity that he could only faintly feel. They grated across eachother, sticking with a dryness that he can feel in the air. Is the air growing hotter at his back? He licked his lips. Salt. There must be salt at the top of his lip, or at that part underneath his bottom lip. Or maybe he took a dip in the river. Who would want to do that? His eyebrows furrowed. Why couldnt he think without speaking? Each time he spoke, he wondered if that voice was really his. It's quiet. Empty. Almost as quiet as Matthew's usual tone, but Alfred always had to be the loudest, right? Seconds later, he can still hear his words bouncing on the wall. Back and fourth. Back and fourth. Till they move away far enough that he can only faintly make out what the echoes of his voice is saying, and only due to remembering the words that left his chapped lips. What would happen if he yelled? He breathed in air, but it scorched his lungs. Those lungs. They never hurt like this, though. It reminded him of the time he breathed too closely to a fire when he visited Matthew on Canada Day. How many years ago was that, now? Regardless, his lungs were closing. They had a fire in them. This time when he told his legs to stop, they listened - finally - and seized while he scratched at his chest. As though that could relieve the flame that's burning hotter and hotter inside. His hand grappled at his T shirt and tore away some of the design on it when his fingernails scraped against the fabric. What cartoon is on there? No, it's an anime. Whatever it is, it's something he likes. Only he can't remember it right now... He pressed his lips together and forced his lungs into a cough. The fire wouldn't let it. It's as though the fire had melted away any place to draw air from, and held a small little resevoir of liquid fire that sloshed when Alfred put his hand on that cool wall next to him. He couldn't grapple anymore. His legs gave out, and with them, a silent exhale that never came. He couldn't breathe. The fire is growing, gnawing..


And all at once it's released. He's tearing at something that has found its way around his body and in front of his arms. One of his hands is on the wall and at the moment, the paint beneath his finger feels way too cold. Not comforting at all. All at once he tore away the thing confining him - a bedsheet - and sat up straight in bed. Some hair is stuck to his forehead and there's a sharp pain in his chest that won't go away, no matter how hard he coughs. But with each cough, the fire lessens. Each time he releases something pent up in his chest, it feels relieved. Not better, but simply... relieved. The cold touch has disappeared from his hand as soon as he takes his hand away to hold it next to his chest and briefly he notices that there is chipped paint underneath the fingernails. Cheap Walmart paint. He's stopped coughing but he cant get enough air into his lungs despite how much he pants; in, and out. In, and out. Calm down... An attack? While I'm asleep? That's messed up. Alfred shook his head and ran a hand through his sweat soaked locks. He must look like shit right now. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks - isn't it nice to think without saying what I'm thinking?
He's used to getting this during the day. These attacks, these moments where he can only sit and cough till he's able to breathe in air again. Isn't it happening more and more? Alfred's eyebrows furrow. Yeah, it is. And the attack he just had wasn't the worst he has had, but he's been free of this for so long. It's only been the past year that he's been going through this again. They assume I don't run a lot because I'm lazy. I'm losing weight and I'm just sitting around... that's messed, too. A wry smile tugged at his lips and he stood out of bed, a hand rising to his lower lip to wipe off the sweat. To top it off, he has a feeling that he's sick. He remembered falling asleep being wracked by chills. During his sleep, his fever must have broke... is that a cloth lying on his bed? Tony must have been taking care of him. Alfred smiled. He complains a lot when Tony takes away unhealthy things - McDonalds coupons, snacks, excessive amounts of Mountain Dew and video games - but in the end, he's grateful. Especially right now. To say that Alfred hasn't been masking this from the other countries would be a lie - why would he show that he's weak? A hero doesn't get sick. When a country has his economy in pretty bad shape, they generally fall ill. The fact that the United States isn't doing very well is well known. Canada must know about it the most by now. He'd be so worried right now... Tony left me tea on the nightstand. That would be nice... if tea didn't suck. Alfred made a face and poked a finger into it. Room temperature. He must have thought that he'd wake up later.

With coffee in mind Alfred made his way out of his room, more or less stumbling along the way. That's another thing. Before, Alfred had never stumbled; he had the grace of a man who is oblivious and yet somehow manages to keep from being clumsy. Ever since this happened, his movements have become more and more clumsy until he nearly knocked over England's tea at the G8 meetings on multiple occasions. He knocked Canada over more than once, and he nearly made the mistake of tripping on Russia. The commie bastard would probably assume that America wanted a hug. "Hugs my ass..." America mumbled under his breath and made his way down the staircase. For once, the house seemed empty. Is Tony out? Alfred pursed his lower lip. He might be picking up some of his perscriptions. This would be an awesome time to go and stay at Matthew's house... it sucks being America itself and still having to pay for healthcare. What's up with that? Although he's doing bad, he's been worse. With his economy failing, turboculosis rates are flaring up - via the attack he had just had while asleep. It's not the worse he has had, but it's bad enough to remind him of a time he'd rather forget. A nation reflects what large amounts of people go through. When the civil war came... I felt as though I were being ripped in two. His hand clenched on the railing. Why did these stairs have to be so huge? The only time he can actually see anything is when a flash of lightning occurs from outside. His lungs began to itch again until he had to cough into his white nightshirts arm - still sweaty from sleep. Right now he can feel so many parts of his body screaming, all leading to his head. Opinions. Arguments. Cultural disputes. Crime. Pollution. Shitty economy. All speaking loudly at the back of his mind, grappling for his immediate attention until they can find a way to the center of his mind and get him to do something about it. It's always been this way. And in times of happiness... those voices can be forgotten.

Not like now.

He flicked on one of the ceiling lights of the kitchen and grabbed coffee beans. Almost robotically, Alfred put them into a bean grinder and waited - tick, tick tick... BOOM - thunder nearly made him jump till he realized that it wasn't gunshots. Gunshots? As thunder? Alfred never pays attention to that fear. In a sense, it doesn't exist in him; the only time he had been afraid of the thunder was a timespan of months to a year after Hurricane Katrina. Some nations are afraid of the thunder, but Alfred usually grins and exclaims - Did you just see that? That was so cool! So get a grip. Thunder and lightning are awesome. They paint the sky and show briefly where the clouds hide, until their light fades away and you can't see anything other than what streetlights illuminate. Dully he realized the coffee was done grinding, and he set out to make a cup when the time caught his eye. 1:00 AM? He felt as though it were much, much later. But he fell asleep early, didnt he?

Somewhere around two am he found himself in front of an open floor to ceiling window. The papers that had been on his desk had scattered - unimportant papers; Tony got him to take care of the important ones earlier - and books that have been given to him from England or leftovers from his early days looked as though they were about to fall from their bookcases. For someone who does not read often, it's surprising that Alfred even has a library.
Maybe he shouldn't be breathing in the scent of wet earth. A fever has begun to run its course through his body and this time his body feels much too hot. The coffee from an hour earlier is half full and now lukewarm, in the process of being cooled down from the chill that kissed Alfred's lungs and leaving him breathless. Breathe in deeply... and out... he opened his eyes after he found he could breathe again. No, keeping the window open is a bad idea. The ground right in front of the window is soaked - he'll have to mop that up soon - and every once in a while his white curtains blow up with a gust of wind that pushes some of his bangs away from his face. Regardless of this, he can't help but stand and watch the storm.

He used to do this as a colony. When England was out from the house and during the time when he ignored Canada's existence out of jealousy that England might pay attention to Canada more than America. He would stand and he would watch a storm, and if the storm got exciting enough, he would watch the lightning dance and feel the way the ground vibrated when a crack of thunder got too close. Sometimes he would fall asleep during this and then wake up later, with the window closed and a blanket over his shoulders that had not been there the night before. An addition to the state of the mind is the way his arm has began to throb painfully after the tremors of an earthquake in Virginia passed. And then there's that feeling of hostile wind that isn't from the window; a hurricane might hit, coming from the Bahamas. His chest was fine but somewhere he felt guilt that he couldn't help Canada or Russia - 5,000 dead in Moscow? He never liked the man, but they aren't exactly hostile towards each other anymore. Russia must be hurting. and God knows how many are hurt in Ottowa, Canada.