From Men to Monsters

Inspired by and response to this
Word count: 2057
Setting: 1970, Alfred’s home
Contains: some violence, mention of war and violence, mentions of blood
Focus: Alfred and his feelings during the Vietnam War
People: America, Russia/USSR, Belarus, Nyotalia America, and England

    The door slammed behind him, and heavy, fast paced footsteps could be heard pounding down the hall. His jacket was dropped down on the ground, carelessly because it was restricting him, making his movements hesitant. His tie was undone and tossed aside; it was restricting his breathing and suffocating him. His shirt, pressed to a straight crisp, was too discarded for it was making the room too hot, too stuffy. All of it hit the ground and was forgotten moments later. Alfred had a purpose and that was to escape to his room, to the place where no one could reach him.

     And finally he reached that safe haven only to feel just as trapped as he did moments before.

                                             ‘I can’t breathe…’

     All of the faces flooded his mind. All of the judgment, the stares, the disgust from the meeting earlier swarmed around his vision, making it foggy and clouded. His skin felt as if it was on fire, as if it was melting from his very bones. He couldn’t stand to think of it, couldn’t stand to think of the thoughts they were having. They didn’t need to express it; he already knew exactly what they were thinking from the looks in their eyes alone.

                                                  ‘You failed.’

     That’s what each pair of eyes said, and it was that judgment that made Alfred feel like he was drowning. He knew that they had heard about the events in Vietnam, and he knew that they were keeping track with his movements. It was too big of an idea, too grand of a war, and he was too big of a country to not pay attention. A shaking hand reached out and gripped the doorknob to his room, gripping and turning the cool brass. The cool relief of isolation washed over him, but only for a brief moment did the blonde find relief.

     He walked into the room, and though his body moved his mind was frozen. It was frozen on the image in front of him, the one reflected from the vanity mirror, and though the reflection was something he’d seen hundreds of times before there was something different this time. His hair was disheveled, his posture tired and slumped, and where there should have been blue eyes all he could see was the eyes of another.

                                            All he could see was violet.

      Anger swelled up in him. Anger at that image he couldn’t shake, no matter how much closer he got to the mirror, anger at the image those eyes represented, and anger at the voices he could hear.

                                            “Look at what you’ve done.”

                            Hands reached out and ripped the dresser.

          “You say you do it in the name of freedom but you’re worse than me.”

                              Glasses were tossed onto the bed near by.
                             They were restricting his eyesight anyways.

                                                “I know what I am,”

                     He could feel the wood splitting the harder he gripped.

      “And the problem is that you pretend that you’re something other than that.”

     Alfred knew he wasn’t. He knew that those statements were wrong, and he knew that Ivan was only trying to make him angry, make him lose control. A nation that was out of control could be turned against, but a nation that was calm in the face of chaos was one to be reckoned with. ‘He’s wrong…He’s always been wrong.’ Yet, the insult felt sour in his mouth, and the more he thought about it the more sour it tasted. In his heart he knew this war was wrong, but it was fought for a good cause, right? The end justified the means…right?

     “Alfred you’re just their puppet. You know this is wrong. Why are you letting them do this to you?”

      He knew this was true, that Amelia was right. What choice did he have though? It was the will of the people and the will of the government. She was just misguided, confused by the talk of the people out west. Alfred knew that if she had to face what he did that she too would think like him. Now, however, he didn’t know what to think, and sometimes he thought that Amelia was the wise one between the two of them.

     “You don’t need troops, Alfred. This war is a disaster, and you need to get out while you still can. Before you regret it.”

     He already regretted it. He regretted that he even asked Arthur for more help, regretted the fact they were still in this war, and regretted that he even agreed to do something like this. The American wished he never agreed to go into Vietnam, even if it was for a cause he still believed in, and wished that they would just leave already. Who could he say that to? Not to his government, they’d say he was just tired and needed to trust them. Not Arthur or Amelia, he couldn’t take their pity or their sadness. All of his other friends looked down on him for the idea, or they were the ones on the other side, the ones who laughed in his face.

    “You’re just swine, a capitalist pig. You don’t know anything about the rest of the world or how it works. You just hate it, hate us because you can’t control it or us like you can with your pet Germany.”

      He felt his anger rise again at her words. Natalya, a girl he used to look at with a flustered face and butterflies in his stomach, was just as bad to speak to as her brother. Alfred knew those words weren’t her; they were placed there by him. It just angered him so much to see what he turned her into, and it made him sick to his stomach. She was one of those people who used to be so strong and who would take nothing from anyone, and now if Ivan were to say laugh in his face she would. It was disgusting, vile, and it made him want to punch Ivan every time he saw her face.

      Yet, in with all that anger sat something that formed a lump in his stomach. He could blame it on the sour taste in his mouth, but the blonde couldn’t swallow the idea that her words caused doubt to form. She was wrong, so very wrong, and there was no way that he was like that. Being that controlling, that obsessed with fighting, and that egotistical wasn’t something he would do. That was right up Ivan’s ally, and it was not a part of his hero agenda. Germany was recovering because of him, well with the help France and England, and even though the wall was built he took good care of his side. He showed the world that he could build back two former empires, Germany and Japan, and still take on the world.

                                                 ‘I’m not like him.’

      Then why did he still see purple eyes? If he wasn’t like that bastard then why— Alfred tore him self away from the vanity and moved across the room, almost pacing back and forth. His nerves were getting to him, but everything he tried to relax them only made him more anxious. With each step he could feel the stress building, his heart race, and the anger pooling.

                                                    ‘I’m a hero.’

      It was getting hard to breathe again. The room was so stuffy, so hot and muggy just like the jungles he was trying to escape. He could hear the planes flying overhead, head the buzz of bullets flying by, and hear the sounds of explosions. It just made that lump in his stomach so much worse.

                                               ‘I’m not the villain.’

      He could hear the screams, those god-awful screams, over and over. He could smell the napalm, smell stench of burning forests and burning flesh. Each step brought a new wave of sickness and a new wave of stench. It brought the briny taste of bile to his mouth and made him want to vomit.

                                              ‘It was for freedom.’

      Alfred stopped in his tracks. Freedom. That’s what all of this torture, all of this guilt, was for. He had to protect everyone from the communist threat, no matter the cost. That’s what he told himself during the fifties, and a little over ten years later he was still fighting for it. Yet, freedom didn’t hold that ring like it used to. It felt bitter. It felt sour. Most importantly it felt like a lie.

      Blue eyes glanced towards the mirror once again, hoping the vision had changed. Even with his poor eyesight, Alfred could see that it had changed, but instead of seeing himself he saw another. He saw the face of the thing he hated most, the person he hated most in full form this time. Feet staggered over to the mirror, and with each approaching step the vision cleared. He tried blinking, but it did nothing. He tried looking to the side and then back again, but it only produced the same result. So instead his rage flared up again and instead of seeing Ivan all he saw was red.

      His body lashed out, and it wasn’t until the American heard the glass shatter did he realize what happened. Blood slowly dripped down from his knuckles and splattered to glass shards resting on the vanity. Shock kept him from moving his hand. It had been years since he lashed out like that, lashed out with blind rage and blacked out because of it. Alfred stared down at the shattered pieces of glass and seconds later wished that he didn’t. That face was still there, and this time he was laughing.

      Rage made him move and bring his fist down to smash the glass. He wanted to break it, to destroy it, until dust was only left. The blonde didn’t want to think anymore. He didn’t want to think about the war, didn’t want to think about the person he was becoming, and didn’t want to think about her, about Vietnam. All he wanted to do was focus on the pain, the stinging sensation he felt as the glass cut his skin. It was clear, sharp, and dulled the ache he felt in his heart and the sickness he felt in his stomach.

      However, not even the pain was able to keep her voice out of his head.

      “You destroyed me. You took everything I was and ruined me. I hate you. I despise you. You say you’re so much better than the USSR but you’re just like him. You’re just another demon hiding behind a smiling face.”

      He wanted to argue against her words, but as he continued to strike the glass he couldn’t find the words to defend himself. Alfred felt like the monster she described, and this fit of anger only proved that. He took such a good cause and ruined it. Lan was right, they all were right, and he knew that. His attack slowed down, each punch losing strength, and soon he was just dragging his hand through the shattered glass. The teen could feel the holes in the wood from his strikes, and finally his arms reached the end of the dresser and fell to his sides.

      All energy Alfred has was gone now, and the rage that was bubbling for so long turned into cold sadness. The strength in his legs disappeared, and soon he slumped down onto his knees. Blood continued to drop from the gashes on his hands, but that did little to stop him from bringing his hands up to cover his eyes. He couldn’t stand to look at anything, couldn’t stand to hear anything, and as his body leaned forward and his forehead hit the ground all he could think about was what he did.

      His government could say all day that this war was a good thing and he could believe them all he wanted, but Alfred knew that it was turning him into a monster. The Cold War was turning him into the things he hated the most and the things he swore never to be. Tears formed in his eyes and soon spilled over into his hands. It hurt to sob, hurt to move his hands, but his heart hurt the most of all.

                                         ‘I am the hero…right?’

                              Alfred honestly didn’t know anymore.