A/N

So. Umm. .  . Here's chapter four.

~Shatter.

~°~

Dear reader,

If you are still reading this, I advise you to turn back now. So far, there hasn't been much/any blood, death, sadness, suicidal thoughts and/or actions. But there will be more of that for now on. So if you cannot handle that kind of thing, you should probably leave right now. Go ahead, delete this book from your library, and never look at it again. We have barely scratched the surface of the horrors that this story will contain.

I am warning you now, because if I tell you much later, it will be too late.

If you do read on, then just know that you have been warned.

~Shatter.

Chapter Four.

~°~

America was sitting in the exact place where England had first found him, thinking about England.

Sure, he hated England. But the line between hate and love was sometimes so thin. . . .

America knew this. He knew that he hated England. England had killed Boston.

And yet, he also felt something else towards England that he couldn't place.

He heard a voice. "Dad."

America looked up, and saw the city.

"Boston," America whispered.

Boston walked over to her big brother that she thought of as a father.

"Boston," America repeated, a soft smile crossing his lips. He stood, slowly, staring at his daughter.

Boston wrapped her arms around her father and pulled him into a hug. America could feel his clothes getting wet and realized that Boston was crying. Tears blurred America's vision, so he just closed his eyes and wrapped his daughter in a comforting hug.

After a few minutes, Boston pulled back. She looked at her father, tears still sliding down her face. A few tears were sliding down America's face too, but he didn't know it. He gently wiped away the tears from his daughter's face.

"Father," Boston whispered. "I love you, father."

"I love you too, daughter," America said, smiling slightly.

"I know," Boston said. "And I know that you're mad at England."

"How could I not be?" America asked quietly. "He killed you."

"I forgave him," Boston said. She still had tears sliding down her face, though America was wiping them away. "He regrets his choice. I know. He would never do that again. Please, father."

"Please what?" America asked softly. "Forgive him?"

Boston nodded. "He lives in guilt. And I know that you want to forgive him, father."

America sighed. It was true, he did want to forgive England. But how could he?

England killed his daughter.

His mind was conflicted. Boston sighed. "Just promise me," she started, "that you will at least not be mad at him anymore. You don't have to be best friends or anything. Just. . ."

"He killed you," America said. "He killed you. You were but a child then."

"He regrets it. He doesn't think that he deserves to be forgiven. But I think he does deserve to be forgiven," Boston concluded.

"Holding on to grudges won't get me anywhere," America sighed. "You're right."

There was a momentary silence before America wrapped his daughter in another hug.

"Boston," he whispered. "Boston. . ."

Tears fell out of America's eyes. Boston cried too.

"Please don't cry," America whispered. Boston only cried more. "Please don't, please don't. . ."  the fact that Boston was crying made him cry more and more. "Please."

After a few long minutes, Boston pulled away again. She smiled to her father.

"I have to go father," she said, smiling sadly. "I did not come back to life." Tears came from America's eyes faster. "But I will be waiting for you. Take you time. I will be waiting."

America cupped his daughter's face in hands, trying to capture every inch of the face that he hadn't seen in so long.

"Boston," he whispered. "I miss you, daughter."

"I miss you too," Boston whispered back. "I will be waiting, father."

America wiped away his own tears with one hand. They were making his vision blurry. He took of his tear-stained glasses that were also making it hard to see. He wanted to see his daughter's face clearly.

Boston smiled as she started to fade away. America desperately tried to hold on to his daughter, but it was no use. His hand fell through her like she was air. He tried to speak, but he could bely breathe.

"I love you, father," she said. "I'll be waiting for you." Then, she disappeared completely.

America stood there for a moment, still as a statue with shock. Then, he crumpled to the ground, feeling as if his daughter had just died all over again.

~°~

America woke up. He sat up, remembering the dream, and sobbed silently into his hands.

But it wasn't a dream. Not really. She was really there, in his dream. She had visited him, but somehow it only made him feel worse in the end.

He tried to wipe away his tears, but it didn't do anything as more tears kept falling. He heard his imaginary friend Tony come over and, after seeing America, tried to comfort him.

After what felt like (and was) hours, America's tears subsided. Not that he was happy, because he wasn't, but because he had no tears left. He took a shaky breath.

America tried to stand, but he couldn't really focus on anything. Tony came over and helped him stand ('cause that's what imaginary friends somehow do) and let America lean on him for support all the way to the bathroom. America then leaned on the sink and got a cup from the counter. He filled it with water and drank it slowly.

After a few cups of water, he splashed some water on his face to try to erase any sign that he had been crying. Heroes don't cry, right?

Of course, his daughter had just been taken away from him again.

America looked around, feeling slightly stronger again (though still just as depressed and stuff). His gaze paused momentarily on a knife on the counter in front of him.

"I'll be waiting." The words of his daughter echoed in his mind. But he tore his gaze away from the knife. He hardly thought that killing himself is what she meant.

But maybe just cutting would get rid of the sadness. . . at least a little. . . .

Before he could, (which he surely would have) there was a knock on the door.

He rushed over to the door, Tony following him, and felt glad that he had slept in his clothes. He opened the door, and saw a worried England.

"America," England said. "Did something happen? You didn't come out for breakfast. The states, district, and territories said that you're usually awake by then. We're all worried. Are you okay?"

Ugh. That question again.

America smiled convincingly. "I'm fine."

England didn't look convinced, but just nodded. He saw Tony and was surprised. "Does he stay in there with you?"

America glanced at Tony. "Nah. Tony usually likes to stay in the basement and play video games. He was just here. He has this habit of just appearing sometimes. . . ."

"Sounds like my friends," England muttered, thinking, staring at Tony.

"The ones that everyone says are imaginary," America muttered. England was about to glare at America (he does NOT have imaginary friends!) When he saw that America also seemed to be thinking about something. Tony just said something in his weird alien language (that both nations somehow understood) and then walked away.

"Imaginary. . ." America muttered. Then he looked back at England, only to find himself face to face with one of England's imaginary friends. He only hesitated a split second before saying, "Oh, whatever. I'm hungry, let's eat."

Actually, he wasn't hungry, but he's always supposed to be hungry.

England noticed the split second hesitation and narrowed his eyes slightly. He briefly wondered if America could see the imaginary friend, but if he had, why hadn't he told England?

There's plenty of reasons, England's brain thought. He mentally glared at his brain for betraying him.

England shook himself out of it, and saw America trying to hide a laugh. His realized that his facial expression must've looked weird and blushed slightly. He looked away.

(A/N I just realized that I'm drifting away from America. I'm going to officially go to England being the new main character for a while.)

Once England's blush had faded, he looked back at America, who still seemed to be trying not to laugh. But England thought he saw sadness in America's eyes, and he frowned.

"Are you sure you're okay?" England asked.

"Yes, I'm fine," America said, smiling brightly. The sadness in his eyes disappeared. (A/N Not really, America is just a professional at hiding his true emotions.)

But England could have sworn that it had really been there.

"Let's go," America said. Then, he started walking towards the kitchen. England hurried to catch up to him.

They talked for a little while on their way there. America seemed kind of. . . nicer? But also more distant at the same time. England didn't know how that even possible.

America walked in. Massachusetts had made breakfast again (he wanted to). America ate a dozen hamburgers. "Thanks, dude," he said to his son.

(A/N Calling your son dude? Okay then. . .)

England couldn't read America's mind. Maybe it was better that way. England didn't exactly want to know what his former colony was thinking. But was America okay?

(A/N No.)

~°~Skip Of the Time!! And America's the Main Character Again~°~

America entered his room later that day. He immediately made a detour to the bathroom where the knife had been. He got the knife, then immediately pressed it to his arm. Blood spouted out from the cut, and America made sure it was deep enough to scar.

He did this for a while until the was bleeding from both arms. He started too disinfect and bandage the cuts as to hide the evidence and stop the bleeding from ruining his jacket when he put it back on. He was halfway done bandaging them when he heard someone knock on the door.

America cursed.

He quickly threw on his jacket, knowing that the sleeves could cover up the blood for a little while, before closing the bathroom door and going to the floor to his room and flinging it open.

England was there.

America smiled. "Hi, dude!"

"You're late for dinner"

America paused. "I am? I'm just really out of it today, I guess," he said. Then, he laughed it off like no big deal, and was about to leave when he knew something was wrong.

Especially when he heard England gasp.

America looked at England quizzically. "What is it?" Then, he followed England's.

America hadn't pulled his sleeve all the way down. England could some of the scars.

England looked up at America with wide eyes. America's eyes were wide too as he looked back to England.

Neither nation moved for a moment. No one talked, not a single noise was made.

England slowly reached for America's arm. America resisted the temptation to pull his arm away, because he knew that England would probably end out tricking America into going to his house, then feed him England's home cooked food until he told him. And no one wanted that.

England pulled up the sleeve, and gasped quietly. Scars littered the skin on his arm, making it barely visible.

England looked up at America with wide eyes again.

(A/N Dear Harry Potter fans,

I almost made the "After all this time" and "always" scene right here. You know what I mean.

~Shatter.)

"How long?" England asked.

America shrugged halfheartedly.

"How long?" England asks, a little more forcibly.

"I don't remember," America said. "I lost track a while back. . . ."

(A/N That rhymes!!)

England sighed. He led America back into his room, closing the door, then went into the closed bathroom. England saw the bloodied knife, but didn't comment on it. He silently finished bandaging America's cuts.

"No more cutting," England told America quietly. "Please."

"Okay, I won't," America said.

But that was a lie.

A/N

I hope you liked this chapter! I'll try and update again soon.

~Oliver.