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Inner Demons ~AmericaXPossessed!ReaderXEngland-Chapter 1-
“You guys ready?” I called from the kitchen. Arthur and I had come to the brilliant conclusion of faking a sèance to scare the pants off of Alfred. It was a little game of revenge for making us stay up for six hours to watch horror movies with him.
“Are you sure you want to do this guys?” Al asked. “I mean, it’s already 11:30 and you both still look pretty tired…”
“Don’t worry Alfred, I feel bad for snapping at you earlier, so I want to make it up to you.” I said holding up a box. “With this!” Al looked super excited until I took the ouija board out and set it in front of us.
“What’s this? Is it like a game or something?” Alfred asked.
“It’s called an ouija board dim-wit. You use it to communicate with the dead.” Arthur piped.
“What we do is we each put our hands on this thing,” I held up the communicator, “ask the spirits a quest
Seven Minutes in Heaven-2P! SpainYou pulled out what looked like a black tie. You wondered who it could belong to, since there wasn't an obvious sign. As far as you knew, none of the countries owned a black tie. A hand was placed on your shoulder as someone spoke. "I believe that is me chica." The coldness in their voice made you shiver as you turned, meeting a pair of deceivingly mellow brown eyes.
He had darker hair and skin than his counterpart. Hair a dark chocolate brown and skin a deep bronze, he wore grey skinny jeans, with straps on his left thigh. He also wore a black vest and biker jacket, covering the tattoos that resided on his arms. You gulped a little. You guessed he was spanish, by his accent. A rattail was draped over his left shoulder, with what looked like a mauve ribbon holding it all together. He smiled at you, although you could tell it didn't have good intentions behind it.
The next thing you knew, you couldn't see, everything had gone dark. You then heard a door slam shut, alerting you to the fa
“You’ll never catch me!” you yell. “Give it back!” a certain Prussian shouts, chasing you down the street. Whenever you got bored, you would go and take something of Gilbert’s and make a run for it.
Once, you had stolen a bottle of his most precious and expensive beer, his “I’m Awesome” shirt, and now, currently, some kind of book that looks a lot like a diary. You decide to open and read this ‘diary’ making sure your running at full speed. You know that if he ever catches you, he’d tackle and tickle you. Oh how you hate being tickled.
“I, zhe avesome Gilbert Beilschmidt, has a crush on a girl zhat I have known for years now! I long for zhe day I can tell her mein feelings!” you shout behind you, mocking his accent. “Seriously Name, give it back!” “B-but I thought we were best friends!?”
You get to your treehouse and start climbing up the latter,
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
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