"Well let him come out here and say that to my face!" the Mirror screeches. Without his bat he feels naked. He glances around and, finding nothing suitable, reaches over and rips the branch off of a fallen tree. Bark and splinters dig into the skin and sink painfully into America's already torn-up fingers, but he doesn't think ahead of how this is going to hurt America in the long run.
He takes a step forward, branch dragging behind him, and then he suddenly freezes. It doesn't look like a struggle, it looks like a blackout. His eyes go wide as if he's been struck in the head and he suddenly collapses to the ground.
In the five seconds the body is crumpled in the dirt, time has stopped in America's mind. He knows, distantly, that nothing happening is technically real. It's all in his head. It's all in his head. He repeats this several times as he stands in a mimic of his room created by his imagination. It's all in his head, but this is all really happening in his head.
Nothing can hurt him in here, he thinks even as the imagined candlelight goes out. Nothing can hurt him, not even that shadowy outline he knows is a boy with red eyes.
And nothing will hurt you, the Mirror assures him. It's not reassuring.
America imagines hands grasping blindly for a way out, for reigns or a wheel or something to take control. His hands land on nothing but emptiness and then, finally, the warm arm of his counterpart. He wonders if all the other countries have to deal with this or if he's a special brand of crazy with rooms in his head where he can escape to when the strain of living is too much.
He wonders why a cloth is suddenly pressed to his face. Why he didn't smell it earlier, or how this is working because this isn't real. It takes three breaths--the first a panicked gasp of chemicals searing his lungs, the second a confused, muffled cry as a sluggish hand tries to claw away the Mirror's grip, and the third a slow shallow breath--for him to go down. The split second before he sinks into sleep there's a fleeting acceptance.
The body on the ground coughs, rolls, and lurches to its feet. It has America's face, but the grin is too sharp.
"You wouldn't believe the places Alfie hides his meds. You'd think it'd take more ether to knock him out, but man, you'd be wrong!"
He grabs the branch and slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. "Don't worry, he ain't gonna feel a thing. He's real tired of fightin', y'know? I'm just givin' him a chance to rest! Not like this big ol' dickbag you're sharing your squinty-eyed dope face with."
Amirrorca gestures to Daryl. Every Daryl. All the Daryls.
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He takes a step forward, branch dragging behind him, and then he suddenly freezes. It doesn't look like a struggle, it looks like a blackout. His eyes go wide as if he's been struck in the head and he suddenly collapses to the ground.
In the five seconds the body is crumpled in the dirt, time has stopped in America's mind. He knows, distantly, that nothing happening is technically real. It's all in his head. It's all in his head. He repeats this several times as he stands in a mimic of his room created by his imagination. It's all in his head, but this is all really happening in his head.
Nothing can hurt him in here, he thinks even as the imagined candlelight goes out. Nothing can hurt him, not even that shadowy outline he knows is a boy with red eyes.
And nothing will hurt you, the Mirror assures him. It's not reassuring.
America imagines hands grasping blindly for a way out, for reigns or a wheel or something to take control. His hands land on nothing but emptiness and then, finally, the warm arm of his counterpart. He wonders if all the other countries have to deal with this or if he's a special brand of crazy with rooms in his head where he can escape to when the strain of living is too much.
He wonders why a cloth is suddenly pressed to his face. Why he didn't smell it earlier, or how this is working because this isn't real. It takes three breaths--the first a panicked gasp of chemicals searing his lungs, the second a confused, muffled cry as a sluggish hand tries to claw away the Mirror's grip, and the third a slow shallow breath--for him to go down. The split second before he sinks into sleep there's a fleeting acceptance.
The body on the ground coughs, rolls, and lurches to its feet. It has America's face, but the grin is too sharp.
"You wouldn't believe the places Alfie hides his meds. You'd think it'd take more ether to knock him out, but man, you'd be wrong!"
He grabs the branch and slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. "Don't worry, he ain't gonna feel a thing. He's real tired of fightin', y'know? I'm just givin' him a chance to rest! Not like this big ol' dickbag you're sharing your squinty-eyed dope face with."
Amirrorca gestures to Daryl. Every Daryl. All the Daryls.