I'm pretty sure that everyone has had a moment where they walked in to a room and they instantly regretted it. Like moments when you walk in on somebody in the bathroom or accidentally mistake the employees' only door as a way to the bathroom and find out what really goes into those American Big Macs. But, I don't think anybody has walked into a moment as awkward and disturbing as I have.
There are probably about seven things wrong with the picture I walked in on. There may be more if I notice something else, but so far I found seven. And I have only been in the doorway of this room for about thirty seconds.
I should probably leave the doorway, before I find even more reasons to want to barf. But, that's the curse of walking in on something so disturbing. When something is so nauseating, one can't seem to look away. It's like when somebody yells, "Don't look!" and everybody turns their heads to gaze upon what they have been forbidden to look at. Or it's like when you find a grossly stupid fanfiction and you can't seem to stop reading it.
I don't know the psychology behind all of it, so I'm not qualified to explain the strange reason for staring farther. I'm not even sure if the frozen state of being heavily disturbed has ever been professionally defined yet. It probably hasn't, because I don't know the official name to describe not moving when the atmosphere certainly screams to move. And probably not, because I certainly don't want to take the time to figure out the psychology behind it all, and I doubt somebody else would want to.
But, I am qualified to explain what I'm looking at as a witness. Oh, my goodness I'm a witness of this! That means that my name could be linked with this disgusting sight. I just hit the jackpot of bad luck, and for some reason I don't think I'm done gambling with my faith or innocence yet.
Ok, what is wrong with this picture that I'm unfortunately seeing as a witness? I still can't get over the whole witnessing this part, but it's probably best that I explain all of this before I notice something else that will cause me to ruin this pink carpet. Why is the carpet pink anyway?
Great, my mind is doing that again. My mind is trying to find something else to obsess over. In this case it's the horrible tacky pink carpet, that doesn't match the rest of this horribly tacky house. Maybe I should just think about the carpet instead of the seven things wrong with the scene I walked in on. But the problem with that is that the carpet is linked with the disgusting scene. Ah, why couldn't my mind find something else to obsess over?
Why me? Why did it have to be them? I grown to respect and admire them, but now I'm not sure how to view them. Seriously, how do I respect somebody after I saw them performing a stunt like that? Why, why, why, did it have to be them? I don't think I will ever be able to look at them the same way again.
And to think that it has only been thirty seconds. Thirty seconds, and I have rewritten the views of some of my best friends. Why me again? Why couldn't it have been one of my stupid friends? One of my stupid friends who do and see things like this practically every day, one of my stupid friends who would just classify something like this as breakfast.
More importantly, why are they not talking to me yet? I clearing intruded on what some of my insane friends would classify as "bonding time", and for some unknown reason they haven't yelled something like "Get out!" or "What are you looking at!"
It's not that I'm waiting for them to say something. It's just that the silence is making this moment a bit more awkward. Why can't I just leave? Why do I feel the need to stay here letting them stare at me like some sort of horror movie poster?
Ok, maybe more then thirty seconds have passed. It certainly seems longer then thirty seconds. But do all things appear-
"England! Dude, haven't you been listening?" America asked from the couch of the pink-carpeted room.
"Huh?" Since when did America get here? And how did this couch get into this room? I thought-
"Like seriously, I have been asking you if you wanted to play this new video game with me. And the whole time you have been standing and staring in the doorway like some sort of mindless zombie," America said, looking at me like some sort of freak.
"But, I didn't…" I let my voice trail off. Because, I just now realized that I wasn't even in a tacky pink house. I was in America's house. And the two countries I learned to respect so much weren't on the floor doing something France would call social bonding.
"Are you okay?" Was I okay? Could I seriously have just imagined a sight as disturbing as that one? Since when do I imagine anything?
"Umm, I don't know, I just had this insane…." I let my voice trail off again. Do I really want to tell America about the disgusting image I just imagined?
"Seriously, man, do I need to take you to a doctor or something?" I can't believe that America would offer to take me to a doctor; maybe he isn't as stupid as I classify him as.
"Uh, I don't know. When exactly did I get here?" I don't remember ever coming into America's house.
"You've been staying at my house for about three days," America said looking at me concerned.
"Three days?" That can't be. I don't remember coming to America's house. I don't remember leaving my house. And I still don't remember entering this room. The room I entered was pink, but that room seemed to have disappeared.
"Yeah, three days. Don't you remember? You came here because France was going to visit your house, and you didn't want to be home when he did or something. I don't really get the reason why you came here, but hey you've been here for three days."
"Three days?" That can't be. I don't recall any of this. I think I would remember something frog face would be planning to do, and yet I don't recall anything.
"Yeah, three days. Dude, you're shaking like one of Russia's state buddies!" I was too caught up about how the hell I got here, I didn't realize that I was beginning to loss my balance.
"Maybe I should sit down."
"Sure, that's probably a better idea. You can have the recliner." After America said this, I tried moving my legs, but for some reason I wasn't able too.
"Uh, I can't seem to move my legs," I said embarrassed. Why does this have to happen to me?
"Really? That's cool! How did that happen?" Why does America consider this cruel faith cool?
"I don't know." Why can't my legs stop shaking? Is this normal? Why am I shaking? Why can't I move my legs? Why am I shaking?
"Weird," America said as he got up from the couch and started walking toward me.
"Uh, what are you doing?" If I could move my legs, I would run away to keep America from picking me up.
"I'm going to set you on the couch, because on all the doctor shows, the patient is always laying on one of those hospital beds." Since when am I a patient? I didn't like the sound of that.
"Do you really have to carry me?" I don't know where to start on how embarrassing it is to be carried by America.
"Yeah, you can't move your legs."
"But I still don't think its proper-"
My sentence was cut off by America dropping me on the couch. "You could have set me on the couch! You didn't have to drop me!"
"Ok, well you stay here. I'm going to get my phone and call France," America said as he began to leave the room.
"Frog Face! Are you crazy!" What the hell is America thinking? That is probably the worst idea ever.
"No, France is an expert on you. I'm going to invite him over to have a look at you." Is America insane? Why does he have to invite France over when I can't seem to move my legs?
"Are you crazy!" But, America didn't hear me. He was too busy talking with France in the other room.
I sure hope America doesn't say anything to embarrassing about me. And I do hope France has something more important to do. I don't want that rapist here when I can't move my legs.
Ok, so that is chapter one of whatever the hell this is. I honestly don't have any idea on where this story could possibly be going. I literally just started typing and this is what I came up with. So, if you guys have any ideas please share them.
Oh, and special thanks to my friend Destiny for being the editor of this.
Uh…Who's Destiny? Huh?