The Boston Massacre

March 5, 1770:

The door to the Boston Custom House was forced open.

"Finally!"

England pushed his soldier into the safety of the empty building, before joining him on the inside. He stepped out of the chilly night air and slammed the door behind him. All was still in the dark room. Both men stood panting for a moment, eagerly drinking in the contrasts of the hell from which they had just emerged.

"You should be safe in here," England told his man, while they tried to calm themselves.

However, he was not so sure of his own words. Even their quiet sanctuary offered little protection from the sounds of the mounting ciaos on the outside. The muffled noises of the angry mob found their way into the building easily. They echoed around the room as if they were trying to antagonize the trapped pair.

And they were getting louder.

Suddenly, a crash sounded out. A window shattered. The men could now hear the shouting as if they were on the outside again. Another window broke and the offending stone hit England on the head.

"AH!"

A few more objects came sailing through the broken windows. England audibly cursed the filthy rebels as he and his man took cover. The crowd was throwing rocks and snowballs. How mature. The people of Boston had been restless ever since England and his troops had taken over the city. Tonight, the unrest seemed to have escalated far beyond control.

England, himself had gone to the scene as soon he had received word of the disturbance. Unfortunately, he had found that there was nothing he could do to calm the raging crowd. Most of the mob's anger was directed at one of England's men. All England could do was try to get his soldier to safety while a few of his other men held the crowd back. By that time, the people had backed them up against the city's locked Custom House, so that had been England's only option. Now, they were trapped.

A rapping on the door was heard as soon as England and his man had moved a safe distance away from the small projectiles. Impossible! The crowd couldn't have broken through England's men already! The door swung open slightly. England rushed to the door, dodging more snow and rocks in the process. He pushed the door shut and held it there with his body. The banging on the door was probably just the sound of more rocks, but England was not going to take any chances. He turned to his private behind him.

"Don't just stand there! Find something to bar the door!"

England held the door while the other man quickly brought anything he could find to block more entry into the building. It was dark in the Custom House, but England still tried to get a better look at the man as he rushed about. As far as England understood, this man had been involved in some sort of skirmish with the colonists. That was not really unusual. The city had not exactly been thrilled when England had dispatched soldiers to enforce his unpopular laws and taxes. England had seen it as the only way to keep order and to insure that the laws were obeyed, but the American colonists were not as intimidated by the troops as England had hoped they would be.

Fights broke out between the colonists and the soldiers often. England was ashamed to admit that even his own brother, America, had participated in some of these fights. Sometimes, it was more than just mere involvement; he had been the one who had provoked them. America had never made any attempt to hide the fact that he did not appreciate England's taxes. When it had become necessary for England to send in soldiers to force America to comply with the taxes, America had seen it as an invasion of his home—which of course, England insisted was ridiculous. But it did not matter what England would say. America would not listen. Ever since the soldiers' arrival, America had begun acting out more than ever. He'd started fights, lead demonstrations, he did everything he could to resist England's authority.

All of Europe thought that England should just crack down hard on America and his people, but England was trying to be patient. His little brother was just going through a rebellious phase. That was all. England simply had to hold his ground and eventually America would give up. England was sure that he could outlast his brother. However, as time had passed the violence between the two parties had only gotten worse.

Tonight's latest disagreement had started out with just one soldier and a few young boys, but had ended with a wild, angry mob protesting the "Redcoat's" occupation of the city and threatening the life of the offending private. England was thankful that (for once) America did not seem to be in the middle of this disaster. England had not seen him anywhere in the crowd when he had first arrived at the scene.

"Unreasonable, little ingrates!" England cursed the colonists as he helped his man stack heavy items against the Custom House door. He could hear them outside daring his soldiers to fire. "I'd like to murder the lot of them!"

England was planning to look for another way out of the building once the door was well blocked. Hopefully, he and his man could both slip out before the people outside surrounded them. Unfortunately, this would be one situation from which England would not be able to escape. Almost soon as they finished bracing the door, England heard something that made his body go rigid:

Gunfire.

Then screams.

Then the rumble of the crowd scattering.

England's mind began racing. What had just happened? He had to get outside! Looking at the obstructions he had just placed in front of the door for his own safety, he quickly realized it would take too long to remove it all and exit the building the normal way. England turned away from the makeshift blockade. Abandoning the other man, he rushed for the nearest window. When he reached it, he took one last look at the confused man.

"Stay here!" England ordered his subordinate before leaping out of a broken window.

England was hoping against hope that what he had heard had only been warning shots to scare the crowd. His hoping turned to horror when he re-entered the cold evening and saw the gruesome sight in front of the Custom House. The smoke from the fired weapons was just clearing. The mob of about three-hundred to four-hundred men was still in the process of disbursing. In the midst of the scattering crowd, England could see a few lifeless bodies in the street. Some people were trying to drag a few of the wounded away…at least, England wanted to believe that they were only wounded. The officers were doing nothing. They were observing the retreating crowd in stunned silence, as if they were not sure what to do.

After taking in the scene for a moment (the very scene that England had been working so hard to avoid becoming a reality), England became enraged. His hands tightened into fists. His face radiated pure anger.

"Captain!" England turned his attention to the man who was supposed to be in charge.

"L-Lord Kirkland," the Captain paled when he noticed England behind him.

"What is the meaning of this?!" England demanded as he quickly stormed over to his man. "I specifically ordered you to NOT fire into the crowd!"

"S-Sir," the man stammered, "I swear I gave no such order!"

"Then how could this happen?!" England questioned with rising fury. "Explain yourself at once!"

"Sir, please. I-I don't rightly know, myself. Things…things got out of hand. I couldn't control it," the military man stumbled over his defense in the face of his powerful interrogator. He backed up a bit as he spoke, but the angered British Empire continued to advance on the shrinking man.

England would not let that filth back away from him! The Caption's actions and his current behavior were unacceptable! England wanted a proper explanation, and if he didn't get one, he was going to beat it out of the man!

Another bloody scene probably would have occurred right then and there if the two men had not been interrupted. About that time, a panicked soldier rushed up to England and the Captain. He didn't seem to care that England was in the middle of something.

"Sir! Lord Kirkland, Sir!" he urgently tried to get England's attention.

At first, England ignored the new party, but the soldier's persistent cries were making it even more difficult to understand his Captain. At last, England gave in.

"What?!" England turned to the annoying soldier, with a murderous look that said, "This had better be important!"

That was when the man became aware of England's not-too-happy mood. Suddenly, he began to hesitate. "I-It's your brother…"

England went numb.

"Alfred?" England whispered. In an instant, the look on his face had switched from wrath to shock. "He's here?"

The man didn't answer—at least not fast enough for England. Without warning, England grabbed the man by his shoulders and questioned him further. England's anger had been replaced with an unbearable sense of dread.

"What happened?! Where is he?!"

The man could only stutter and tremble in England's grasp. England's bad feeling escalated.

"Out with it!" England shook the man. "What of Alfred?! Was he hit?!"

No matter how urgently England questioned, he could get no word out of his frightened man. In frustration, England gave up and scanned the street in front of them. Even in the dark of the night, England's sharp, parental eyes spotted a familiar messy head of dirty-blond hair. Its owner was kneeling in the street.

"Out of my way, you imbecile!" England ordered as he shoved the soldier he had been holding out of the way. England then desperately ran down the Custom House steps and towards the street where his brother was. He forced his way through whoever was lingering in the area and leaped over the bodies in the street. His men had better pray that his brother was alright! If anything happened to America, England didn't think he would ever be able to forgive himself.

New soldiers had started to arrive on the bloody scene. A few were gathering around America. As England came closer, he could see one or two of the soldiers trying to help America up. America violently pushed them away. England felt a slight sense of relief when he saw his brother's body move so forcefully. If America had been injured, it didn't seem to be crippling him.

"Alfred!" England called out as he pushed past his soldiers. He came to a sudden halt when he reached America and could see clearly what he was doing. America was on his knees. His arms were wrapped protectively around the upper body of a man. The man's body was limp in America's hold. The poor boy's head was bowed over the man. He rocked back and forth a bit as he tightly hugged the lifeless body in his arms. His own body was trembling as he did this.

England stood panting and observing his younger brother. The soldiers around them stared at England, waiting to see what he would do. England was not fully prepared to do anything, at first. He was trying with great difficulty to calm himself before he spoke or did anything else. He could see that America was upset, but at that moment, he honestly didn't care much for the man America was cradling. He was dying to find out if his brother had been hurt in anyway. Somehow, England managed to get control of himself. The older brother kneeled down on the street and gently touched the younger brother's back. He was attempting to approach America carefully.

"Alfred?" England spoke. "Alfred? Can you hear me? Are you injured?"

Slowly, the rocking stopped. After a few seconds, America raised his head to England. Tears were streaming down his face. His normally cheerful and confident eyes now looked scared and confused. What caught England's attention, however; was a streak of red across his brother's right cheek. It was as if a bullet had grazed him. England lost his restraint at the sight of the scar on his little brother's beautiful face.

"Alfred, your face!" England stood quickly and motioned for America to follow. "Come with me. I'll—"

"He's dead."

England barely caught America's hoarse whisper, but there was something in the way America spoke that was enough to silence him. "W-What?" he warily asked.

America lowered his head to look at the man in his arms again. England took a step back in surprise. He could see now that the man was actually a boy. He was only a teenager who didn't look any older than America.

"He's dead," America quietly spoke again. "He's my friend…and he's dead."

America's voice was emotionless. He was probably in shock. England sadly knelt on the ground by the boy again. Seeing his brother in so much pain made England feel as if his own stomach was being ripped open. England had never wanted America to go through something like this! He had always tried to shelter the boy from the violence of the world. Deaths brought on by political unrest were tragedies that only England and the other countries of the outside world had to deal with. Things like this were not supposed to happen in the safety of the American colonies. England put a hand on the grieving boy's shoulder.

"Oh, Alfred… I'm truly sorry."

England had only wanted to comfort America, but the boy's body seemed to tense slightly at the words of sympathy. He pulled away from England's touch and embraced his fallen friend once more.

"You killed him," America was still whispering, but the accusation was strong in his voice.

"I had nothing to do with this!" England quickly denied any involvement. He was insulted that America would even think that he would have ordered manslaughter in his own colonies. "This was an unfortunate accident." That was all England could think to call it.

America looked up at England again. He had a look that showed distrust. For a moment, England thought that America was going to say something more, but America just lowered his head and clung tighter to his friend.

England sighed roughly. He was at a loss. What was he supposed to do? He was angry at himself for not knowing what to say. Then he began to feel angry at himself for allowing this to happen. But no! This was not his fault! England quickly caught himself and redirected his anger. It was the unruly people of Boston who had started this! Horrible as this mess was, they had brought it on themselves. Still, why did America have to witness it? Why was his brother even there? England was sure he had not seen him among the protesters that night. Then again, it had been a very large gathering of people. England could have easily missed him. What if America had been participating in the violent protest the whole time? England felt a bit of his anger moving towards his brother now as he began to wonder if America could have been part of the cause of this tragedy.

"What on earth were you doing out at this hour?" England questioned.

America didn't answer right away. Finally, he sat up again, but he kept his eyes on the teenager in his lap as he answered his guardian. "I couldn't sleep," he was speaking with little emotion once again. "I was taking a walk when I heard the shouting." America paused at this point. He took a moment to look up at England. "I'm still allowed to take a walk in my own city, aren't I?" America asked his overbearing brother, with a voice and face full of resent. England did not dignify the boy's sarcastic question with a verbal response, but he did frown at America's disrespect. America grunted and turned his attention back to the boy below him again.

"Anyway," he continued. "I came to see what was going on but…when I got here…" America's voice started to crack. The boy was trying to choke back more tears. England could feel his anger dissolving. The older nation gave in to his growing sympathy and put a hand on the boy's shoulder once more. He didn't know what else to do. He knew that nothing he could say would bring the boy's friend back to life. Why did things have to come to this? If America and the colonists had only submitted to him, all of this could have been avoided. England felt for his brother's pain. He really did. But part of him was beginning to think that maybe a lesson could be learned from all this. Perhaps a tragedy like this was just what America needed to shock him back to his senses and break his rebellious spirit.

"It's a very sad thing," England finally spoke gently. "However; I must say this never would have happened if these people hadn't gotten so worked up over nothing."

America stiffened a bit. He pushed England's hand off him, and began to carefully lay his friend on the ground in front of him. "No," he spoke as if he was trying to hold something back, but his voice was rising. "This never would have happened if you had just given my people what they wanted."

England groaned with annoyance. How many times were they going to have to go through this? "It's not that simple, Alfred," England replied in a voice that was no longer gentle or comforting.

"What's so complicated about it?" America demanded as he finally looked back at England. His face had that stubborn look it usually got when he was determined to start an argument over something that he thought was "unfair."

England stood. He was not in the mood for this. He tried to dismiss America's impertinent question.

"You are far too young to understand the complicated matters of government."

That did it. America lost it at that point. He shot up from the ground and lunged for England. Before England realized what was happening, he was seized by the front of his coat. America may have only been a teenager, but puberty had been kind to him. He now stood a few inches taller than the big brother who had once towered over him. He roughly jerked England upward and screamed in his face.

"LOOK AT ME!" America shouted desperately. "I'm not a little kid anymore! Why can't you see that?!"

"Alfred!" England cried in surprise. He was interrupted, however; before he could say anything more.

"Drop him!"

Suddenly, the barrels of several muskets were pointed at America's head. America froze, but did not release England. The brothers had both forgotten that they had been surrounded by a few of England's soldiers. England immediately raised his hands to his men and tried to take control of the situation.

"Stand down!" He ordered. "It's under control!" England was determined to protect his precious little brother from more harm! He tried several times to convince the soldiers to back down, but none of them were listening. They kept their attentions set on the angry American as they loudly demanded the release of their country. America only held England tighter. He jerked his infuriated eyes back and forth and glared at all the guns in his face. He looked like a cornered dog with a piece of meat in its mouth.

After a few frustrating moments of being ignored, England finally decided that talking to his soldiers was useless. His orders were only adding to the confusion. He would try reasoning with America instead. If he could convince America to let him go, maybe his men would lower their dangerous weapons away from him.

"Alfred," England spoke to get his brother's attention.

America continued eyeing the guns all around him. His lips broke into an angry grin when he heard England's voice address him. "Guess you and your men haven't had enough bloodshed for one night, huh?" The boy said through gritted teeth.

England took a breath.

"Alfred, listen to me," he tried again. He was fighting to remain calm.

"Go ahead!" America exploded defiantly at the threatening officers. "Shoot me! I dare you!"

"Alfred!" England gripped America's tensed hands. America jerked his head around to face England. "Settle down," England carefully pleaded. "Don't do anything rash. Please, just do as they say. Put me down."

America glared venomously at England. It looked like letting England go was the last thing he wanted to do, but with all of England's soldiers surrounding him, he didn't have much of a choice. There were a few more moments of tension as America seemed to be wrestling with himself over what he was going to do. At last, America slowly (but bitterly) began to lower England. With one last look of detest, he loosened his grip on England's coat and released him completely.

As soon as America's fingers fell from red uniform, England felt one of his men grab him from behind. England was pulled away as his brother was pounced on by the rest of the soldiers. It all happened so fast, that America didn't have any time to fight back before he was twisted into submission. In a few quick movements, the teenager's arms were behind his back and forced upwards, making him fall forward. His hair was grabbed and his head was dragged down further until his face was on the ground. Once America was down, all of the men piled on top of him to make sure he stayed down.

While America was being detained, England was struggling to free himself from a few soldiers that had surrounded him. They were trying to move England to a safer place away from America. Some men were even trying to straighten England's clothes for him and make sure he was alright. England was much more concerned about America.

"I'm perfectly fine!" England insisted as he pushed away from the men. "Unhand me, you idiots!"

England knew he had to stop this madness before anyone else was harmed that night. He was worried for his brother, but he also had his men to think about. America had no experience fighting professional men of war, but his strength was still nothing to be taken lightly. In the state that the boy was in, if he somehow managed to escape the grip of the soldiers, who knew what he would do to them? And if the soldiers had to use their guns for defense…England did not want to think about that.

"Stop this! Release him!" England demanded. He was on the verge of ripping the men off of his brother one by one. At last, England received a response from his over-zealous men. Most of them looked up at him. They did not, however; obey England's commands.

"But Sir—" one started.

"That was an order!" England raved. "Unhand him, or so help me, I will personally flog every last one of you!"

The men seemed unsure of what to do. They were afraid to disobey England, but they were also worried about what would happen if they set America free. Below them, America was no longer fighting them, but he was panting roughly and doing his best to stare fiery holes through England. That was difficult, seeing as how his head was being crushed into the street. When he tried to look up at England, he could just barely see past the tops of England's boots, but he kept glaring upwards all the same. He didn't seem to particularly desire England's assistance. England himself, didn't take notice of the boy's hateful glarings. He was too busy staring down on his own men with a burning impatience.

"Now!" he warned one last time.

Reluctantly, the men did as England said. One after another, they began to pile off of America. The young colony hissed in pain as his arms were released. His shoulders hurt from having his arms twisted behind him. America remained on the ground even after the last soldier had stepped away from him. England looked down on his brother and then back at his men.

"Leave us," he whispered hotly

"My Lord, are you—"

"It is under control!" England spoke with supreme authority. "I am more than capable of handling him! Go do something useful! Clean up this mess! Arrest the men who shot at the civilians! I don't care! Just go, and don't disturb us!"

The men scrambled to get away from England and his rebellious colony. England watched them leave. He kept his eyes on them until they were an acceptable distance away. When England was satisfied, he turned back to America. Perhaps now they could talk in peace. America was just beginning to sit up. He shakily moved one arm to rub a sore shoulder.

"Are you alright?" England started.

"Yes, Your Majesty," America swiftly answered with mock reverence, as he bowed his head slightly. That was one of America's most recent insults he had come up with for his bossy older brother.

England frowned down at him. "I don't like that tone, lad. I just saved your hide. The least you could do is show some gratitude."

"Whatever," America spat out as he wiped off his face.

England clinched his fists and counted to ten. America had to be tired and stressed from the night's events. England would just have to try to be understanding—even if the brat was unfairly taking out his aggravation on him. Still, when England spoke again, he could not completely keep the anger out of his own voice.

"You shouldn't even be here. It's far past your bedtime. We should get you cleaned up and—"

"There you go again!" America interrupted. He stood up and faced England. "You always talk down to me! 'Past my bedtime?!' Please! Why can't you treat me like an adult?!"

England took a step back and straightened himself as much as he could. It was so hard to be an intimidating parental figure now that America was taller than him. "Perhaps I would treat you like an adult if you would act like one, instead of throwing childish fits every time you don't get your way," England rebutted.

"What else am I supposed to do?!" America threw up his hands as he spoke. "You won't let me have a say in anything! How would you feel if someone shoved a ton of taxes on you out of nowhere?! How would you feel if no one listened to you when you tried to stand up for yourself?! Don't you think you might throw a fit?! You don't care about me at all! You get to make all the rules and then you just expect me to be a 'good little boy' and say 'How high?' every time you say 'Jump!'"

It always came back to the taxes.

"I am not asking anything unreasonable," England stated wearily. "I simply expect you to contribute to this family. Honestly, the taxes I'm asking from you aren't all that bad. They are lower than the taxes in my own home, for God's sake."

America groaned with some noisy weariness of his own. He slapped his hands to his head and paced around as if he was trying to control himself before he made his next reply.

"How many times do I have to tell you, it's not about the how high the taxes are! I don't mind giving you money if you ask for it, but you can't just steal from me and expect me to be ok with it! I may be young, but I'm not stupid!"

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England did not understand how things had become so tense between his brother and him. Their relationship used to be such a happy one. True, they were not technically real siblings. America was England's adopted brother, but they were so close that you would never know it. Ever since England had defeated France and won the rights to America, he had been taking care of the boy as if he had been his own flesh and blood. America had practically grown up with England by his side. As America had matured, England began repeatedly switching back and forth from living in his own lands to living with America. But being in Europe, surrounded by countries that hated his guts, drove England mad. England was always happiest when he was with America. America was always excited to see England. He never turned England away, and he would always be heart-broken when England would have to leave. America was England's pride and joy.


Then, one day England had come for a visit to find that America had gone through a massive growth spurt. The American colonies were rapidly growing, and America's body had responded to the prosperity by doing a little growing of its own. The cute, little boy with so much promise had become a tall, handsome teenager that perfectly reflected the success of the colonies.

When England saw how much his brother had grown in so short a time, he had panicked. England cared deeply for America. He loved him almost like a son. In a way, England needed America, but it was becoming more and more obvious to England that America didn't need him. What if America ever figured that out? What if he went off and made friends with other nations and became closer to them? England had spent so much of his time with America encouraging him to mature and become stronger. Now that America was actually growing up, England realized that he didn't like it. England had raised America, and now he felt like he was losing the closest thing to a family that he had ever had! It just wasn't fair! It was all happening too fast! He wasn't ready!

From that point on, England became overbearingly strict with America. After all, he couldn't let his bother get cocky. He wanted to make sure that no matter how big America got, he still understood who was in charge. Besides, if America was practically grown, England wanted to make sure that he had raised him right. It would reflect badly on England if America was anything less than a perfect gentleman. England became painfully critical of America's clothes, behavior, appearance…everything. Well, just because America was not living in London, it didn't mean that he got to act like a half-civilized savage, did it? England bought America new clothes, forced him to spend less time with his friends and more time with high society, made him focus more on his studies so that he would be well read, and constantly corrected his speech and manners. The older nation would also get upset if America slipped up in any way or did anything that England thought was improper.

At first, the poor, bewildered America had tried to go along with England's new, more possessive, attitude. However, with the ever increasing rules and restrictions, and with England practically breathing down his neck over all of them…he didn't last long. That was when America and England began getting into arguments. America thought that he was too old to be ordered around like that. He thought that he was big enough to dress himself and decide what he wanted to do with his own time. The teenager would accuse England of treating him like a child. England would reply by insisting that the accusation was pure nonsense—right before promptly sending the boy to his room.

Needless to say, the fights between the two quickly became more frequent and more heated.

Then, came the taxes.

When England's boss had first started taxing the American colonies, England did not think anything about it. After all, taxes were normal and necessary. However, America had flipped out, once he was old enough to understand what had been going on in his colonies. What's more, the boy's rage would grow worse with every new tax. At first, England didn't understand why America was so against it all. The taxes were light. It was not like England was taxing him out of house and home. Later though, England had realized that he might have been wrong to tax the colonies without letting them have a fair representation in parliament first—but he was not about to admit that to America! England still had his pride and he still saw America as his subordinate. The way he saw it, he shouldn't have to justify himself to a child. Perhaps England's stubbornness on the tax issue was another desperate attempt to reinforce the idea that he still had some sort of control over the growing boy.

America's protests didn't make things any better. The more America resisted the taxes, the angrier and more determined England became to enforce them. The more England enforced the taxes, the more America resisted them. It was never ending. It was a battle in which neither side wanted to back down.

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"How dare you accuse me of stealing?!" England began to shout, as well. "It's more my money than it is yours, you little brat! And I could certainly put it to better use than you could. Need I remind you, I am your older brother. I know what's best for you."

America narrowed his eyes at England.

"'Brothers' don't use their little brothers as their own personal piggy banks!" he claimed forcefully. "If you really wanted to treat me like a brother, you would let me have my say in family matters. I'm supposed to be a 'British Citizen,' but I'm not even allowed to represent myself in parliament? What's up with that?! That's just…WRONG!"

"Alfred—"

"And you know it's wrong!"

"I…I…you can't—"

"And the taxes aren't the only thing wrong here," America went on, as England struggled to come up with a good argument. "I can come up with plenty of other stuff! Your stupid trading restrictions, for one."

England put a hand to his aching head in frustration. He didn't need all of this right now. "Alfred, we've been through this a hundred—"

"Why don't you want me trading with anyone other than you?!" America wouldn't even let England finish. He was fed up with his guardian. Like the boy had done on so many other occasions prior to that night, America demanded a legitimate reason for England's interference in colonial trading.

"There is no reason for you trade with anyone else!" England angrily insisted. "I provide everything you need! Moreover, if I allowed a novice such as yourself to do as you please in foreign affairs, the other nations would eat you alive!"

"I'm not a baby!" America shouted, as he got in England's face once more. "You can't scare me the old 'don't talk to strangers' bit! And you can't keep me shut away in the colonies forever! I have to know what's out there, you know! You've already seen the whole world. Why can't I see any of it?! You're so obsessed with keeping me to yourself, that you're even trying to stop immigrants of any other country from coming here!"

England stepped back from America, but stood his ground on the issue. "You may not understand it all now," he crossly explained, "but I am only thinking of your well-being."

"And the stupid leaders you set up here aren't anything to sneeze at, either!" America ignored England's sickeningly traditional explanation and moved on to yet another of his guardian's many offences. It seemed America was on a role. The fatal events of the evening had brought up a passion in him that would not soon be quenched. At the moment, America just wanted to let his collected aggressions out by bringing up every qualm he had with England that came to his mind.   

England tried to stop America before he could go any further on that subject. "Be reasonable! I can't control everything my men do!"

"You don't even take the time to try!" America accused with an incensed voice. "I'm always telling you about how they abuse their power, and you always say you'll get to them eventually, but you never do!"

"I-I'm a busy man!" England hastily claimed; looking away from America. "You have no idea what it takes to run an Empire!"  

In reality, England was very aware of how many of his governing officials ran the colonies. He chose to do nothing about it because he approved of his men's policies overall. When he did not exactly approve, he still made no effort to fix things because he did not see the problems as important enough to be trifled with. England had better things to do than waste his time with petty complaints over his established administration. The America and his colonists were simply too soft if they were going to let every little thing bother them. If America thought that he had it bad now, he should try making do in Europe during England's younger days, or even in present day England! The boy didn't know how good they had it!

"Must not take much," America grumbled. "because living in this Empire stinks!"

"Alfred!" It did not matter how often it happened, England was always shocked at his brother's outright disrespect for the Crown. "How dare you—"

"Just like your cooking," America spitefully added.

The cheek! England felt that at least his cooking skills should be left out of all this! America had never had a problem with British cuisine as a child, but recently he appeared to have changed his mind. America was quickly developing a distain for all things English. It seemed as if even English food was now revolting to the young man. England couldn't understand it at all. He thought that refusing to eat good, quality meals was beyond childish! Just what had come over America, lately?   

"Oh grow up, will you?" England finally sputtered.

"How can I?!" America shrieked. "You won't let me! You never let me make any decisions for myself!"

"You are being unreasonable! I've let you create plenty of your own laws!" As soon as he spoke those words, England unhappily realized that he had set himself up for what he knew America was about to say.  

"Only the one you agree with!" America responded without fail. "Like all those religious liberties laws I wanted to pass! You turned them down for no good reason, just like you did a bunch of others! And when you found out that I've been working on laws to end slavery in some of the colonies, you said that you would veto those, too! What's the big deal over slavery with you, anyway?!"

England grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This just proves how little you understand about the world." He groaned. "Slaves are an unfortunate but important asset to the empire. I don't know how many times I've had to explain that."

It was becoming clearer to England that it had been a bad idea to spoil America so. The boy seemed to think that everyone deserved to have the easy life handed to them on a silver platter. What would it take to make him understand that wasn't the way the world worked? There were established sets of classes in society. Not everyone could be on the same level.  

"What if all I want is one free state?" America persisted; attempting to negotiate with is unreasonable brother. "Just one place where everyone can be free? How could that hurt anything?"

"It simply wouldn't work, Alfred," England stood firm "Give one colony freedom and the rest will want it, as well. How do you expect the colonies to run smoothly if every productive slave were to suddenly be freed?"

"It doesn't have to be all at once!" America argued. "We could do it slowly."

England almost burst out in laughter. "Do you have any idea how that proposal sounds coming from you?!" he asked in a condescending tone. "You are far too impatient to do anything 'slowly.'"

"But—"

"Enough!" England interjected. "You can stop pestering me about that. It is not going to happen! For the final time, I am not going to relinquish such valuable property!"

If America had not been boiling mad before, he certainly started to steam at England's last statement. "They're not "property," they're PEOPLE!" he insisted.

"Not on our level!"

"WHO CARES?! They deserve a place where they can be free, too!"

England threw up his hands. "God, it's like talking to a brick wall! It doesn't matter what I say, you will never listen to reason! I refuse to converse with you any more over this issue!"

England made a move to leave, but America quickly blocked him. "Fine," he replied sarcastically. "Let's go back to the taxes, since profit seems to be the only thing you care about."

England felt as if he might explode in fury over that blatant lie. No! How could America say that?! Profit was not all England cared about! It was important, yes, but he cared very much for America, too. Why couldn't America understand that? England was just trying to take care of the lad. He was only trying to protect him.

In reality, it was more like England was trying to protect his hold on America. Anyone from an outside view could have seen that, but England was too blinded by his love for America to see it. And like all the other before it, America's current tirade was doing nothing open England's eyes. The angry words only hurt England and made the Empire's anger flare up with indignation. Yet, England was somehow able to keep his cool (relatively speaking) for a little bit longer.

"And how, pray tell," England mumbled with a twitch in his face. He was trying with all his might to keep his temper reigned in, "do you expect me to be making any decent 'profit' with the few, petty taxes I am asking of you?"

"You might not be making much now, but that doesn't mean you can't make a good profit if you wanted to!"

"Just what are you implying?" England asked, indignantly.

"Oh sure, you say it's just a few taxes now, but how do I know you'll stop at that? Like you said, you're the one in charge. You can just waltz in here, take my money, and I can't do anything about it because 'Big Brother knows best.' What's next, huh?! What are you going to take away from me next without my permission?! My food? My homes? My animals? My people?"

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Truly, England did not want to take the ranting America seriously. He only saw America as a rebellious teenager, but he could not fathom how America was really feeling. America appeared furious on the outside, but on the inside he was terrified. There was nothing America valued more than his freedom. How could he not? America was made up of people who had come to him seeking just that. His people had come to him for a better life. They had come to him to escape from their own oppressive governments. They had come because they wanted to be free to worship God in their own way. They wanted to be free to have their own land. They wanted to be free to raise their families in peace. They wanted to be free to choose their own futures and to pursue their own dreams. Even when England had taken a fuller control over America, nothing had changed much in the young America's eyes. England had always given him and his people a wide range to live as they pleased. America had been happy and content having England as his sovereign.

Now, America was getting a wake-up call. With all the new taxes, America was starting to realize what kind of position he was really in. England had the power to do whatever he wanted with America, and America was powerless to stop him. England had thrust all these new taxes on America without even discussing it with him! Sure, they weren't as high as the taxes for the British back in Europe, but at least the European British could represent themselves in parliament and have a voice in how their government was run. America had no such right. America was supposed to be British colonies, yet he wasn't even given a chance to speak for up himself, and England was not going to change that.

In America's eyes, England was threatening everything he loved and it scared him. He was maturing now, and he was starting to really feel the responsibility he had towards his people. The taxes had been the first step in opening America's eyes. America the initial shock of that, the teenager had soon learned of all the other major grievances his people had against the King of England. Every day, it had seemed America would learn something new about his problem. It had been hard for America to believe at first, but the discontent in his colonies was not something new. These little disagreements with England had been going on for years; from even before the time England had officially taken America in as a child at the end of the French and Indian War. The problem that America's people had with England had been there all along.  Perhaps he had been too young to notice it before. In addition, England had always taken great measures to indulge America with a care-free lifestyle during the bulk of his childhood. As a privileged and innocent child, America had honestly not cared too much about the slowly growing political unrest in his lands. He had never even detected it. America had adored England. He would not have understood why his people would not be happy as British citizens too.

Now, America was beginning to understand all too well why his people did not trust England. The more America grew in tune with the feelings of his people, the more his heart broke for them.  He didn't want his people to have to go back to the lives they had had before; not when they had come to him for safety! He wanted so badly to protect them! He just didn't know how.

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"You gonna tell me how to worship? How to think? How to go to the bathroom?" America continued on.

England was becoming more indignant with every word that came out of America's mouth. "You are blowing this out of proportion!" he spat. "You know I would never treat you like that!"

"YOU'RE DOING IT RIGHT NOW!" America pointed out. "How do I really know that it won't get worse?!"

England had had enough of this. "This conversation is over," he suddenly declared.

America stared at his brother in shock.

"You can't just—"

England held up a hand. "I'm not going to feed this senseless argument any further. You need some time to cool your head," with that, England turned and began to walk away. "Go home. I'll take care of things here."

America did just the opposite. He stubbornly followed his older brother. "I'm not finished!" he called after England. "You just want to stop the fight because I was winning!"

"We'll discuss this later," England said simply. "Go home."

America jumped in front of England and blocked his path. "And what are you gonna do if I don't?" he challenged. "Send me to bed without supper? Lock me in my room?"

"I said go home, Alfred."

"Or what? You'll take me over your knee? I'm a little big for that, don't you think?"

England glared up at the over-confident boy. This was really starting to get old. "Don't be so certain," he sternly advised. The Empire's voice had become softer, but there was now a strange, ominous edge to it. In fact, there was something in England's voice and in his eyes that actually frightened America for a brief moment.

The young colony took a nervous step backwards. He gaped at his father figure as he tried to recollect his thoughts. When he recovered, he took a stubborn step back to England. He seemed determined to not let England intimidate him.

"I…I'd like to see you try!"

"Right now, I am sorely tempted to," England whispered with the same eerie tone. "Don't test my patience, Alfred. Go back to the house—Now."

England walked around America, but America trailed after him once more. "Not until I've said my mind!" he declared.

"I won't stand for—"

The British nation was cut off. America had grabbed England by his uniform again and had jerked the smaller man around to face him. He lifted England upwards, just as he had done earlier.

"And you are going to listen!" America ordered.

England gave America a fierce look, but he allowed the boy to continue.

"What makes you think you can tell me what to do, anyway? You're never even around anymore! When you do show up, it's only to make sure I'm following your dumb rules and paying your precious taxes. All you do is boss me around! You never listen to me, and you treat me like a baby! Actually, you treat me worse than that. You treat me like you own me! Like I'm some kind of animal! It's like I'm a cow that you can milk whenever you're thirsty, and then you get to keep me tied up over here, while you just sail back to Europe like nothing happened!"

America was feeling betrayed by his own brother. He was feeling used. He wasn't sure if he could trust England anymore...in fact, he was not sure if he should have ever trusted him. It was like all England had ever cared about was what he could get out of America. Was that what the whole "Big Brother" thing was about? Was it really just a ploy that England had been using to get America to trust him? How long did England really expect America to blindly obey him?

Unfortunately, England still could not see how insecure America was feeling—nor did he care at the moment. Everything America said was grading on England and pushing him further and further to the edge.

"Alfred."

"Well, I am sick and tired of taking orders from you!"

"Alfred," England spoke with growing wrath. "Unhand me."

"I don't belong to anyone, you got that?" America ignored England and pressed on. "I'm not your property, and you can't treat me like I am! You can't treat my people like that! I won't let you!"

"Alfred, I am warning you…"

"If you think that I'm going to roll over for you, while you and your stupid king sit on your stupid thrones getting fat off of my stuff—"

SLAP!

America fell to the ground. England had backhanded him so hard that he almost blacked out. The teenager lay stunned on the cold street until he became aware of the throbbing pain on his cheek. He brought his hands to his face and curled his body slightly from the pain.

England stood tall and watched his writhing brother with a cold stare. America had broken the last straw. Maybe it was the insult to England's king that had done it. Whatever it was, England had made up his mind that he was not going to let America walk all over him anymore. What right did America have to challenge him? England could not allow America's disrespect to go any further. He had wanted to avoid this, but the time had come to make America understand place—one way or another.

"I believe you are finished," England's hard voice came down from above America. England then kneeled down to make sure that he was heard. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a thing or two to say."

America didn't look at England. His back was to the powerful nation. He was lying on his left side, with his hands still holding his right cheek. He grunted in anger and pain. England took that to mean that he was listening.

"Apparently, I have neglected my duty and have not brought you up properly," England began. "It has become obvious to me that I have been far too lenient with you." After a pause, he continued. "That changes now. It seems that you are in need of some re-education. Let me start off by making a few things quite clear to you: First off, you are not as mature as you think you are. You might look quite grown up, but compared to me, you are an infant at best! You are no more than an insolent pup who knows nothing about the real world.

"Secondly, to correct another one of your gross misunderstandings: I do own you," England paused once more to let that statement really sink in. "I went through a lot to get you, and I've given you practically everything you have, so as far as I can see, you have no right to question my authority. It would do you well to keep in mind that you are not a nation. You are not a country. You are a collection of colonies—British colonies. Remember where you loyalties lie," America had become still by this time. England could tell he had his attention. "You see, the cold, hard truth is that it matters very little what you think about my decisions. I am the one in control—not you. I am your superior, and you are my subordinate. That is the way things are, and that is the way things are going to stay. You can either choose to submit to fate willingly, or you will be forced," England stood once again before finishing. "The sooner you learn your place, the better. Now for the final time, go home."

America didn't budge. He could only stare straight ahead. He was in shock. It was as if England's harsh words had crushed his body. America felt like all of the air had been sucked out of him. He felt like his world had just been shattered. It took a few moments for the reality of everything that England had said to sink in. So all of that…was how England really felt about him? During England's declarations of dominance, all of America's worst fears had come true. Hot tears clouded the teenager's vision. America felt foolish to have spent his whole life trusting England and looking up to him. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep his tears from falling. He was not going to let that murdering tyrant see him cry! He clinched his hands into fists. He wanted nothing more than to attack England right then and there and pound him into the street!

"No."

"What was that?" England stiffened.

"You heard me," America said hoarsely as his rose to his feet. Once up, America turned and began to walk off without another word or even a passing glance at England.

"Alfred?"

America kept walking.

"Alfred!" England called to him. "Don't dare walk away from me, young man! Alfred! Come back here this instant!"

"Go jump in the ocean."

England was taken aback.

"Of all the…I said get back here at once! Alfred! Are you listening to me?"

America whirled around.

"Why should I?!" he shouted back. "You won't listen to me, so why should I listen to you?!"

The moment America's face came into view, England felt his self-righteous spirit disappear. Blood was now gushing from the boy's cheek. It was the same cheek that had had the scratch on it before. On that same scratch, a new welt had formed, and blood was pouring out of it. The sight snapped England out of his anger. He could feel concern creeping in as America turned away once more.

"A-Alfred?" England called to his brother apprehensively as America walked further away. "Alfred…Alfred!"

"I HATE YOU!"

With that, America sprinted out of sight.

England was left alone. This time it was his turn to feel stunned into silence. With those three words, America had wounded his bother more than he would ever know. England felt like he had been stabbed through the heart. Once he could move again, England lifted up a shaky hand; the hand that had struck his brother. A large ring rested on one of England's fingers. It was covered in blood. England realized with sickening guilt that he had caused America's face to bleed like that.

England angrily yanked the ring off of his hand and threw it away from him. He turned and stomped down the street soaked with melted snow and blood. He walked right past the body of his brother's friend. This was not his fault! He was not going to take the blame for this! Alfred was the one to blame! He had made him do it! England's hands and his conscience were clean!

Years Later:

England sat at his desk with his face in his hands. An open envelope and an urgent letter rested in front of him. America had officially declared independence. America no longer wanted any part of England.

England rubbed his hands through his hair. How had he let it get this far? He never expected his brother to be foolish enough to do something like this! He had raised America. He had given that boy everything he could ever want and this was the thanks he got? What was England supposed to do now?

The troubled nation picked up the Declaration that had arrived with the report and looked it over once more. It was bold. It was presumptuous. It was disgraceful. But even England had to admit that there were sections that were somewhat inspiring. It was fairly well-written, for colonist propaganda. He was sure that the people of the colonies would be more determined than ever to reject English rule after reading it. England lowered the paper, leaned back in his seat, and rubbed his temples.

For a passing moment, England considered the option of simply letting the boy go. He had been butting heads with America for so long now. He was growing weary of it. How bad would it be to let America do as he wished and strike out on his own?

Then, images began to flash in England's mind; images of a tiny, vulnerable boy living out in the wild. He could see images of the time he had spent with that boy: feeding him, playing with him, reading to him, rocking him to sleep…. He could hear the child's laughter. He could sense the child's love. He could feel the child clinging to him as he begged England to not leave him all alone.

What did America know about running a country, anyway?

England stood up with new resolve. No. He tore up the Declaration of Independence in his hands as he walked towards the door. He could not lose America. After all the blood sweat and tears England had poured into that child, he was not going to let him go so easily! America was a precious resource to the British Empire, after all.

But there was so much more to it than that. England had never known the feeling of being truly loved and admired before he had met America. His real brothers and most all of the world despised him. America was the only friend and family member England had. It had taken England hundreds of years to find the happiness that he felt when he was with America, and he was willing to fight for hundreds of years more to keep it!