Work Text:
America looked down at his cat Freedom's lifeless body. She looked peaceful, just like she was taking a nap. He walked away from her, grabbing a small box before walking back to her. He felt nothing at all for her death. He was supposed too. He knew that somewhere deep down he felt awful. He knew that somewhere deep down he felt like curling up into a ball and crying his guts out, but he just couldn't.
He set Freedom into the box, curled up the same way he found her. He pet her once more before closing the box up. Before he went out to bury her, he walked over to his bookshelf. It was messy, books every which way and figurines block the view of most of them. For his shelf being extremely small, many books decorated it. Comics, novels from England... but he wasn't looking for any of those. He was looking for his bible. Specifically, his bible from WW2. He skimmed his small shelf, past all the fun books that he used to enjoy until he found... Aha! There it is. In all of its old and fragile gory. Pleased with himself, he walked back over to the box.
He picked the box with her body up, as well as a shovel, and went outside to his backyard. He looked around before finding a nice spot surrounded by flowers to bury her and started digging. One shovel hit after another into the dirt, flinging it out of the hole. It felt therapeutic. When the hole was deep enough, he set her box down into it with a small flower. A small poppy. He sat down beside the hole, staring down at the small box at the bottom.
He sighed, resting his head in his hands. He felt numb to it all. Like his brain had set up a wall to stop any negative emotion to come through. In fact, he actually didn't really feel bad at all. ... America felt dirty and cruel. Why did he not feel anything towards Freedom? He's had her for years yet his eyes are dry. Before he could think about it anymore he stood up and started to fling dirt back into the hole. He watched as dirt fell over the box, making a sound every time it got hit. When the hole was covered again, he stomped down the dirt. Then, he picked up a medium sized stick from the ground and stabbed it into the fresh dirt of the hole.
He stood there, holding the shovel, and just stared at the stick. Still, even after all of this, no tears fell. He gripped the shovel tighter. He grit his teeth, throwing the shovel away from him. He felt his breath quicken as he fell to the ground. Still no tears. Still nothing sad hit him. Still indifferent. Still a cruel jerk who didn't care. Why couldn't anything else have happened? Why did his only chain tethering him to the ground have to break? He shook off his anger and readjusted how he was sitting.
He looked down at the sky, gripping his hands together. He didn't go to church often. He used to, though. Please just let this be a dream. Just let him wake up and see his cat alive and in his arms again. He knew that he was wrong. He knew it. He knew it yet some part of him wanted to hold on hope. A small part of him wanted to know that it was true. Even if it wasn't. He pulled his hands away and rested his head on them once more, staring down at his cats makeshift grave. He didn't know what to do. He was unsure of who to tell or when to tell. If he should burden anyone with this death. He stood up, looking at his cats grave again before he turned and walked to his room. He laid down on his bed, still feeling nothing and took a nap. Numb to everything around him.