As England sat in the dark confines of his room, a tear rolled down his cheek. With every new year comes a new every day. The months start over and the dates repeat; everyone knows that. But this particular day was one that, year after year, England hoped would cease to pass. It was the day he lost everything.

Well, not everything, exactly; two things, to be precise. The first was a war, but that was unimportant. Wars come and go like the common cold. The second, however, was much more than that. He may not have lost everything, but he did lose the one thing that mattered. He'd lost his brother.

These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just so much that time cannot erase

The 4th of July was the day he loathed, more so than any other. However, losing his brother was not what stung the most. No, the hammer that drove the nail in was that it was all his fault. If he'd only been more considerate, America might not have left him.

England would be lying if he said America wasn't always strong; he'd beaten up a bear before he could walk! The fact of the matter was, regardless of that strength, England always felt like he could protect America. When America started becoming more independent, England felt like he could no longer protect America; be it that he physically couldn't or that America simply wouldn't let him, he never knew. What England did know was that he missed the days when America was young and depended on him. He missed America begging him not to leave when he had business trips, or teaching him how to play the violin. During that time, England felt whole, knowing that someone needed him. But in what seemed like the blink of an eye, everything changed.

He still wasn't entirely sure why he did it; charging so much for taxes, never giving him enough freedom, and basically treating his people like slaves. He'd always convince himself that it was for the previous reasons, to protect America. Of course, deep down, he knew that was only half the truth, if even that much, but he would never admit it. He liked to think he did it out of brotherly love.

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have all of me

The thing that irked England about July 4th was that, while he loathed it, America celebrated it. Sure, it's great to win freedom, anyone would want to celebrate. However, common decency shows that America should have at least been the slightest bit upset, or at least acknowledged Englands grief. He and his brother had almost killed each other on this exact day several hundred years ago. Anyone would be upset.

That was when England remembered; no one else even knew that he was upset. Why would they? He didn't tell anyone. As far as they knew, England treated this just like every normal one. Americas happiness at gaining freedom would take precedence over any sadness, and England pretended not to care. No one else had anything to celebrate, so there would have been no point in talking to America or anyone else about it. The only one with something to grieve was England. And grieve he did, within the confines of his home, that is.

As life went on as usual for the other nations, England fell into a despair. He never showed it, though. As far as anyone else knew, he was as fine a young gentleman as ever. But inside, he was plagued by the thoughts of what could have been, along with the memories of what had.

You used to captivate me by you resonating light
Now I'm bound by the life you left behind
Your face it haunts, my once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away, all the sanity in me

Even now, almost two hundred years later, England was still being haunted by memories of the past. He knew it wasn't healthy, and he knew he needed to stop, but something always seemed to get on his way whenever he tried. Usually, it was an old toy or book that America used to play with or read, but sometimes, it would be voices. His voice, to be exact. He would hear conversations he had with America, or himself reading America a bedtime story. It always managed to stop him. He simply couldn't forget, whether he wanted to or not.

I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
But though you're still with me
I've been alone all along

More tears escaped from Englands emerald eyes as he thought about the mistakes he'd made. He really missed America, and he hated that that loud imbecile celebrated this day. England sighed and looked down. It didn't after anyway. He'd never be able to get America back.

The room remained dark as England continued to reminisce. He didn't know how long he'd say there, only that he'd done so since he woke up, just like he did every July 4th. With his eyes fixed to the floor, it was them that he heard a noise. Or rather, he heard a voice. His voice, nearly muffled by the "pitter patter" of raindrops and the clang of metal on the ground. 
"I can't kill you. . . "

Your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone