Dixie Dilemma

The Attic Holds Memories

"Hello brother. " The light gray mutated form of his brother stood (floated?) in front of him, the blood still dripped from his head where he'd been shot, infinitely flowing for the rest of his god forsaken eternity. It wasn't the most pleasant thing, seeing your dead brother's ghost right in front of you, looking particularly unhappy.

"Y-yes 'b-brot-ther-r', s-s-surely you d-didnt think I-I'd l-left? H-how imp-proper..." the glitches in his voice itched at the Americans skin, getting right under it and triggering his annoyance.

"Ironic coming from you," he sighed and picked up a pencil, twirling it through his fingers for a couple seconds. "What do you want?" In a way it was a fruitless endeavor, the chance he'd actually tell him was so slim he'd be surprised if it ever happened.

"Y-you'll s-see~" and with that he dissolved into the background, leaving America in his thoughts.

"...I swear to fucking God! Why are you so annoying?!" He wasn't about to deal with this shit again. "...maybe I should find an exorcist? Do those even work on countries?" He wondered aloud, his glasses taunting him from where they'd been uncaringly discarded on his desk, mocking him as he felt his eye begin to pour, a black chemical goo rolling down his face.

It was going to be a long week.

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The next time CSA "announced his presence" was when he was in the attic, somewhere that still held... memories ... it was to be expected however...not, wished upon, one could say.

To be fair he was the only one who could see and hear his unfathomably wretched talking, something he wouldn't even wish on his worst enemies.

"Hey dad? Can me and Cali go shopping?" He nodded mindlessly as he continued helping with dinner, "Make sure you're back by 12 and have fun!" A pair of groans reached his ears but aside from that they ran out of the room pleased.

"Btw Ari, where's your brother Tex's? I need to talk to him about something." Arizona looks up from the couch, glancing around quickly before nodding his head towards the upstairs attic. Sighing, America hands the knife and vegetables to Luisiana, muttering a quick "Can you finish these for me dear?" And with a nod of approval makes his way up the stairs.

Out of all the places he sure as hell didn't expect (nor want) Texas to be in the attic, there were too many...unfavorable, memories...to say the least, that reside in the sealed upper level of their house. It was, a safe haven, a concealed secret that was meant to stay untouched through the years but for the occasional moments when the great "USA" would let himself feel vulnerable. When he would dig through the empty boxes till he got to the one in the very back, the one that held his most precious memories of his god forsaken existence. He'd pull out the few remaining items he had left of his brother before he'd ruthlessly put a bullet through the others head, murdering his own boots with tainted sorrows.

His kids had learned to never disturb him in those rare moments, lest they trigger an anxiety attack or defense tactic and he shut everything out again. He didn't blame them for that one time it had happened, it had served as a learning experience and ...it wasn't their fault.

Who wouldn't come running when you heard your parents, someone who rarely expressed emotion or vulnerability, cry so hard it shook the ground you stood on. From then on he'd learned to keep it under wraps and be less silent but even then, he sometimes couldn't ignore the looks he got -from his own children no less- of pity after he'd come out after days straight of pure emotional exhaustion, and he didn't miss the look of himself when he'd pass a mirror, he never looked like "USA" or "America", he always looked so ...broken, mask cracked and reality peeking through.

The ladder creaked under him as he climbed through the opening, the smell of old wood instantly hitting him with a strong wave of nostalgia, almost knocking him off balance from the unexpectedness, but he pushed through, he needed to find his child.

It wasn't unusual for some of his kids to have episodes -as much as he wished it wouldn't happen- and hide in unexpected places but they rarely touched the attic. Perhaps it was because they were scared, scared of what could break their parents so badly, perhaps it was because they knew it was and extremely temperamental and fragile topic, or -for those who knew- it was because they didn't want to remember, all the things in the past that they'd accepted to be left behind.

"Texas? Are you ok? I know you're ..." the rest of the sentence was left unsaid as he almost fell, nauseousness overtaking his system as he clutched into the wall for support. He forced his eyes to look ahead, to ignore everything else that happened to be in his line of vision as he focused on his goal, he needed to find his child.

A few steps later and he found his goal well, sort of... There sitting on the floor surrounded by boxes upon boxes was Texas, a small one sitting in his lap, open, going through some of the things inside with an unrecognizable look on his face. The box was in the smaller side, worn at the edges and withering slightly at the flaps but the most unmistakable part was the stains, the stains of Americas cries and sorrows, of his tears that had been transformed -along with his eyes- into something inhumane, a disgusting black void. The box was unrecognizable compared to the others that sat in the attic.

Texas sat in silence, staring at one specific photo (a photo of like a painting ok? Ik they didn't have photos that long ago, chill out) he held in his hands, it was old, very old, from when he and his brother had still been colony's under B.E. They were smiling, real, heart felt, happy smiles, ones that shone brighter than the sun, and were hugging each other. There was another in his other hand, one where they had been leaning against each other at the bottom of a big oak tree, CSA sleeping peacefully as he held a picture book, reading the other to sleep. There were a few others but he couldn't see them properly to make them out.

His breath hitched as Texas lifted his head, looking straight at America, his eyes were dead, an empty void of color and spirit. He looked broken, far worse than anything America had seen, like someone had just broken the light off his life into a million pieces before him, stepping on it just to make sure or was truly broken as he watched helpless. The silence between them was deafening, ear sitting with how tense it was, each waiting for the other to speak first. In the end it was Texas that broke first.

"...What is this?" It was a stupid question, one they both already knew the answer to, but the look in his eyes told America everything he needed to know. Texas wanted him to say it. He wanted him to admit defeat to the charade he'd created around the few memories he still held dear to his heart no matter the dagger that came with it, his heart bleeding as he kept them there, despite the known repercussions.

"O-o-oo~ truth has b-been r-revealed-d h-has-sn't I-I-it?" If it weren't for the intense stare that bore holes into him by his son or the fact his body was physically, entirely, frozen he would've jumped so high in surprise there would've been a hole in the ceiling.