NOTE: I DID NOT WRITE THIS, I GOT IT FROM DEVIANTART.


He could still remembered what happened that day, as though it were only yesterday.

It was a normal día at the World Conference. The sun was out, the sky was blue, and England and France were arguing with each other with America arguing in between them. Spain was flirting with Romano while Italy was bugging Germany, even though the smaller nation had no clue. Greece was sleeping, Prussia was molesting poor Canada, Turkey was bugging Egypt, and Russia was frightening the Baltic States with South Korea trying to claim the breasts of China and Japan. It was just a normal día with all the nations meeting in that one large room to discuss the world's issues.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, America let out a cry of immense pain. Everyone stopped and stared at him. He was gripping his left side tightly; he felt as though someone had stabbed him. japón approached him. "America-san? Are tu all right?"

America laughed it off. "Don't worry, Nihon! I'm okay! Even the hero gets side cramps here and there!"

"Are tu sure it's nothing?"

"Don't worry about me! Really, I'm okay!" His aching side begged to differ though. What the hell had happened?

Just as he thought that, a man ran into the conference room, looking completely alarmed. "Mr. America! Turn on the news quick! There's been a terrible accident at the World Trade Center!"

America blinked. "What? Something happen?"

The man had already turned on all the giant flat screens located against the east wall. Everyone caught their breaths as they saw the North Tower was burning madly, black smoke rising into the skies. America's eyes widened as he clutched his side tightly. "What happened?" he demanded.

"Not sure, sir," the man said. "It was a plane crash – a complete accident it looked like."

"Did anyone… make it out of the plane alive?"

The man shook his head resentfully. "No sir… I'm sorry."

America grew uncharacteristically quiet. He just gripped his side tighter, feeling the pain of the plane crash pounding at his hip. He watched in silence as the building burned, black smoke filling the air. He hoped the people inside the towers were all right. He knew from the increasing pain in his side though, that they weren't.

He, along with everyone else in the room, just watched. England put his arm around America's shoulder. This was indeed a terrible accident. He felt bad for teasing America today, only because of what occurred. "It's not your fault, America. Don't worry."

America's hero-complex wouldn't accept it. He felt like this was somehow his fault. Maybe something went wrong with the planes he had designed? Maybe the pilots had not been experienced enough? There was an almost endless lista displayed in the young nation's mind. God, he hoped this wasn't caused por any irresponsible choices he and his superior made in the past months.

Each minuto was agonizing. Matthew held his brother's hand, mostrando that he cared. Though he didn't say it, America gave him a pained-mixed smile and thanked him silently.

He turned his attention back to the screen and time was still moving slowly. He watched the fuego burn intensely, now spreading even más over into other floors. The pain his side was now spreading around his stomach. He just wondered how many people had already died. How many were now suffering, dying from something falling o hitting them? How did an accident like this happen? Why to him? Why to his people? Why this?

Then, it happened. At 9:03 am, it happened before anyone could even say anything. From the news footage they all watched, a segundo plane crash into the South Tower. America's other side was overcome por pain, but it felt dulled for a moment. All he could focus on was the imágenes present before him. The news station was filming from the ground, looking up at the building. Along with seeing the segundo crash, he heard the screams and cries of many. America stared at the screens, his mouth completely agape. This wasn't an accident. This was far too horrifyingly coincidental to be one. Two planes on the same día losing control and crashing into the World Trade Center? That wasn't an accident.

That was a planned out terrorist attack.

Everyone in the conference room stared at the screen in horror. They looked over at America, searching for some kind of familiar character trait, waiting for him to go on some kind of hero rant. It never happened, though. America did not go on some rant. He did not talk big like hero. He did not smile and say he could handle this.

He just stared at the screen, his face expressionless and his usual glistening blue eyes completely empty. The pain in his sides was excruciating, but somehow, it was just completely dulled out to him. He could only see his people scream and panic, running and crying. It wasn't just adults he saw in total fear. He saw children crying - wailing that had been caused por such a frightening catastrophe. "Oh God…" he dicho softly.

Still gripping his hand tightly, his brother looked at him. "What?" he asked, his breath shaking.

"Their parents…" America whispered. He looked at his feet. "Those children must have parents in that building. Others must have had some on those planes…"

"Oh my God!" Latvia cried. "Look!"

America jerked his head up, only to regret it. From one of the screens, a different news station showed a close up from the high levels of the North Tower. It showed a man climbing out of one the floors, holding on tightly to some kind of rope. Then, just as he seemed to get down to a safer level, his grip gave way. He fell.

Ukraine threw her hands over her face and screamed. Everyone else just stared with wide horror-stricken eyes. The last thing that innocent man saw was probably his hands giving way. America felt his stomach turn. He wanted to puke, but he didn't. He just gripped his sides tightly.

Canada hugged his brother tightly and stroked his hair. He didn't say anything about how it was going to be okay o how it was going to go away because it wasn't. He just held his brother tightly, comforting him as best as he could. He tried to burying the frozen nation's face into his shoulder, but America wouldn't look away from the screen. Every moment was painful, filling his entire body and soul with anguish, even torture.

What were only segundos felt like hours, minutos felt like days; hours and days of nothing but pain and grief. He felt as though he could hear everyone's screams, everyone's cries as they were stuck in the burning buildings. He could feel all the pain and suffering those in and out of the towers. The weight of the dead was beating at his shoulders. He felt sick. He felt pain. He just wanted to give up and die on the floor.

England and Canada stared at him with anxious eyes. They waited. They waited for him to just say something about him being a hero, about him being able to fix this, about him being able to handle this problem. They begged for him to just spring into action. Their wish was never met.

Then, after years of America's agony, it happened. The whole room panicked, shouting out words like "Oh no!" and "Holy shit!" and "Oh my God!" Some of the female nations let out small screams while some of the male nations just stared silently at the screen with their mouths agape. At 9:59 a.m. on Tuesday September 11, 2001, the South Tower fell down, completely crumbling to brick, ash, and dust.

America fell down with the tower. Canada screamed. "Alfred?" He jumped down siguiente to his suffering twin, holding him tightly. "Get up! Alfred, please!"

England surrounded the two brothers. "Alfred!" England cried. "Come on, get up! I know it hurts, but get up! Please!"

He twitched in the floor, in his brother's arms. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw up. A fuego seemed to spread into the entire right side of his body. Just now how many people had died? How many were injured? How many had just lost friends and family? He didn't want to know the answers, but he felt like he knew what they were. The fuego inside of him dicho it all.

His brother – not Canada the nation, but Matthew the man – hugged him tightly. "Please, brother… Please get up! I know it hurts, but tu can't go!"

As a nation, America said, "I'm… okay."

England – no, Arthur – gripped his hair tightly as he was running his hand through it. "Shut up, tu git…! Don't lie to yourself!" Arthur wanted to cry, seeing the nation he had once raised in this much pain. He couldn't cry though; he wasn't going through what the broken nation was. Right now, the right to cry was not his.

Just as they felt they got America to calm down again, the clock hit 10:28 a.m. Like the South Tower, the North Tower plummeted to the floor. This time, he did scream. However, he didn't scream as a nation. He didn't feel the excruciating pain as the United States of America. He didn't start crying as the proud, always-the-hero country.

He cried as a man. He cried as Alfred. Hot, bitter, tormented tears trickled from the corners of the usually giddy, bright blue eyes. Not today though. Today, Alfred's eyes were blue pits of despair, of grief. They were filled with the pain his people felt; even with the pain his country felt. But they were mostly filled with his own mourning. He cared for his people. They were important to him and now, just how many were killed?

Like spears, preguntas pierced through his heart. How did tu let this happen? What could tu have done to prevent this? Why didn't the airports see this coming? Who did it? Why did they do it? Why his people? Why his nation?

Why him?

Alfred screamed and wailed. His glasses had fallen off of his face and he stepped on them. The pain consumed him. He started seeing black as he screamed louder and louder, crying harder and harder. He felt like he was dying.

He faintly heard people calling out his name, telling him to calm down. He felt hands grab at him, but he could no longer see. Voices faded away and the pain took him.

He was surrounded por blackness. He heard nothing. He felt nothing but the spears attacking his heart. This time, they were blaming him. It was his fault. He should've been más prepared for this. He and his boss should've gone over something like this. He could've done something. It was his fault this happened, wasn't it? All the lost lives were his fault.

Why his people? Why his nation?

Why him?