Author's Note: Originally, this was meant to be a chapter within a series that was all about America as a female and her history through the perspective of a woman living in a world with a majority of male nations. However, I'm not sure if I'm going to end up writing that story. However, if I ever do, consider this a little teaser.

"This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl thirty stores in six malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven't a clue where to find fulfillment or how to wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those two pretty syllables.

About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable."

-Katie Makkai, 'Pretty'

There's something sickeningly beautiful and liberating about being in control of oneself. This is where her fascination spawns from—America thinks—this desperate need to validate the one thing that she can still manipulate and call her own.

And as she straightens her back and sucks in her stomach in front of the mirror, she stares with a long grimace at her rounded hips, hating every millimeter of extra tissue around her lower body. Feet cold from the tiles of the bathroom floor and breasts cupped in her hands, she can only focus on the ugly globs of deposited fat settled around her abdomen.

It's revolting.

She turns to the side, stretching out on the tips of her toes to elongate her figure as she imagines what she might look like if she were thinner. After a few long moments of hesitation, she finally gets dressed and decides that this will be the day that she gets serious about working on her self-image. No more insecurities. No more taunting smirks from men with talons for nails, stripping at her confidence with every breath of disgust at her unsightly figure. No more standing in front of the same mirror for hours on end, wondering what things would be like if she were attractive.

She will be pretty—a living diamond for all to see.

Promising this to herself, she takes initiative in the following weeks, surrounding herself with anything and everything that might hide every imperfection that she must live with. She buys blemish correcting creams, facial scrubs, as much makeup as she can afford to invest in, weight-loss beverages, and magazines with women on the covers that present themselves with an effortless beauty such that America knows she will never fully possess.

She buys into the façade of the beauty industry, selling her dignity with each beauty product she brings home, waiting to look brighter, younger, happier, and most importantly, slimmer.

When the pangs of hunger hit, she simply distracts herself by chugging water or trying out new combinations of shimmery makeup that make her feel like royalty. She fixes her hair, ignoring the fact that as each week passes, it grows more and more frail, detaching itself from her scalp in small chunks at a time as she combs through it, the golden wisps turning to ash in her hands.

This however, is not enough. Not nearly enough.

So, she takes up exercising. Waking herself up at five o'clock in the morning, she takes long runs throughout the neighborhood and back, pleased to find that most of the side streets and avenues that make up her very veins are devoid of people during her training regimen.

Sweat soaked and clammy, she returns home in the early afternoons, a dizziness crawling up from her neck in tendrils. This is evidence of her success.

Each night, she goes back to the icy bathroom, naked as she stands on the scale, praying and pleading for the numbers to dwindle after each hunger-filled day departs from existence. It's an addiction of sorts, always lingering in the back of her mind whenever she witnesses the curve of her reflection.

It takes a kind of discipline that America didn't know she possessed to soldier on, and each minute of victory fills her with beauty; the beauty that she has always wanted above all else. She will be wanted now—envied.

She will do whatever she must to reach this self-actualization that she has dreamed of embodying. So, she cloaks the house with as many mirrors as she can, plucking her brows and disposing of her glasses to reveal her desperate blue eyes, searching for something else to correct. There is always room for improvement, and she will find the flaws that everyone else must have already seen.

However, her plans take a short intermission when she gets a call one morning from the person she had least expected to hear from. She puts down the flat iron that she'd been assaulting her irritatingly wavy hair with, displeased with the lackluster outcome.

When she answers the shrill ringing, a worried voice immediately finds its way through her ears, rattling her out of her sluggish daze caused by chasing perfection.

"America? My God, where've you been? I've called you multiple times, and Canada has as well. You haven't answered your phone for days! Is everything all right? Are you ill?"

Her brother and father figure are concerned? She smiles at the thought, drowning out England's lecture to remind herself that they will never understand her struggle. They do not know what it means to have to be beautiful as they contentedly roam in a world of men that will never belittle them to the point of such self-deprecation. They live in different spectrums of the universe, and while America must shrink herself to fit into a beautiful ball gown that will impress, the men will scrutinize her and pick off only the women that they find suitable to their tastes, casting the others aside.

Being beautiful will make her worthy in the eyes of men. She will finally be regarded as an equal. She will be judged severely; a symbol and precedent for successors to adhere to.

"America? Are you even listening to me?" England queries, mildly hysteric. "Do you need me to come over?"

She grins a faux grin—faux like the walking skeletons in her magazines. "I'm just dandy, England. I've just been a little…preoccupied, is all."

England makes an indistinguishable sound on the other end, huffing and puffing to himself as he organizes his concern and stows it away. "If you're sure…Perhaps I should drop by anyway to check up on you, hmm? It's been a while since we've talked, and it can't be healthy for you to continue avoiding human contact."

Panic sets in as America realizes that she is not ready for anyone to see her yet. She is still far from the pinnacle of beauty. "That's really not necessary. I told you that I'm fine, England," she replies sharply, making it blatantly obvious that she is annoyed with the other.

Ugly. Hideous. Embarrassing.

It's no wonder England hasn't visited her sooner. Who'd want to subject their eyes to such a pitiful display? Besides, he's no longer a father to her, and she doubts that she'll be anything other than despicable in his eyes.

"I can't help but feel as though you're hiding something from me, love."

"Don't be silly," she shrugs off with a playful tone that sounds more characteristic of her. If she's surprised by the fact that he's using pet names with her, she doesn't express it. "I'll talk to you soon. I have to go."

England sighs but doesn't pursue the issue further. "All right. If you need anything, please call. Take care."

"Will do," America assures persuasively, ending the call before stepping over to the mirror in her bedroom. Sunken blue eyes blink back at her, hair stringy and dry from the lack of sustainable food that she's failed to ingest.

"Still disgusting," she notes aloud, biting her lip as her stomach lets out a vibrating gurgle. She grabs a bottle of nail lacquer on her nightstand, blanketing her chipping nails with the liquid essence of femininity.

She reminds herself that feminine is beautiful. She's been boyish for as long as she could remember, rolling in the mud like a pig since birth. She will never return to such lowly standards. England used to stress a cult of domesticity himself, chiding her for not acting like a lady or participating in lady-like activities. She couldn't play the piano or violin, couldn't cook a traditional meal if her life depended on it, and had never mastered the formalities of proper etiquette.

She had underestimated the power of being attractive and captivating, failing to seduce men to cater her every whim.

But now—now she will be in control. She will hold the reigns with pride. She will find her place in a society that expects her to be magnetic, bewitching, charming, and absolutely stunning.

And she can feel that glamour in her bones as she vomits in the sink less than an hour later, belly gorged with nothing but cold water and the incessant need to be adored by the world's stage.

England growls into his phone in frustration, walking the final few blocks to America's house early one evening. "Yes, I know. I'm going to get to the bottom of this once and for all, Matthew. This is getting out of hand. She's missed the last two world meetings. I honestly don't know what's gotten into her, but I'll be sure to inform you as soon as I know more. I'll contact you in a few hours. Until then, goodbye."

Inhaling slowly, England knocks on the front door of the dark house, surprised to find that the lights are all turned off. For a moment, he wonders if America isn't home, after all.

But then, the door swings open and his former colony is standing in front of him with a disgruntled air about her, tangled hair framing her face as he notices that she is no longer wearing her glasses.

That's not the only thing he notices. No, America is an entirely different person. She's all skin and bones, droopy eyes glaring at him accusingly.

"What are you doing here, England?"

England stands in a mesmerized stupor for a moment, and America has to wonder if he is admiring her blessedly thin hips, barely jutting out any longer through her shirt. He opens his mouth a few times, gaping as he takes a cautious step forward and rests a protective hand on her shoulder.

America simply waits for appraisal, dark blond hair swept to the side as she revels in the fact that she is finally noteworthy. Beautiful. Pretty. Gorgeous, even. Scores of men will circle her from now on—she's certain of it.

When England finally manages to speak, America is drowning in anticipation.

"Poppet, what have you done to yourself?"

America's growing smile fades as she gazes back at England, shivering slightly from the chill of the night. How can he not see how lovely she is? She has worked so hard for this, cried herself to sleep countless times, and now, her own mentor cannot bear to look at her?

"A-Am I not beautiful?"

Realization hits England instantaneously, and he knows that this thing that America has turned into has been a result of choice.

"You idiotic—" he stops abruptly with reluctance, inviting himself in and closing the door behind him before he embraces America tightly, pressing his face into her hair as he feels his nerves increase by a tenfold. "How could you ever think that you are anything short of beautiful?"

She begins to cry without warning, heaving breaths shaking her delicate form as she slumps against England, sniveling at her failure. "I'll never be pretty."

England frowns and strokes the brittle bangs away from America's forehead soothingly, still in a state of shock. "You are beautiful—just the way you are. You were always beautiful, simply by being yourself. God, America, do you have any idea how much strength and beauty it takes to be one's own person, never succumbing to the temptation to change for others? Ever since you were a child it was apparent that you never gave a damn about others' expectations. Beautiful does not even begin to encompass what a riveting young woman you are, love… You are utterly spectacular and brilliant—that is what you've been born with, and it can never be changed."

America merely sobs, shuddering as she feels England's hand rub circles in her back gently. Suddenly, the hunger in her stomach doesn't feel triumphant at all, and it only brings nausea and weakness to her knees as black clouds fill her vision.

Recognizing the inability of those blue eyes to focus on anything, England quickly rushes America toward the nearest chair, sitting her down and crouching before her. "It's going to be all right, America. Sit tight."

She quickly comes back to her senses, holding onto consciousness as England pulls out his cellphone and hurriedly dials a number, speaking to someone in hushed tones.

"What's going on?" she asks, head throbbing as a loud groan escapes her throat. She hasn't eaten solid food in three days, and there's nothing to distract her attention from the effects.

England looks as though he's the one who's about to start crying as he hangs up the phone and comes back to her side, squeezing her hand in his own before pressing a chaste kiss onto it. "It's going to be okay. You're all right now," he reassures, feeling his heart thump sporadically in his chest. He stays in that position for a while until the distant sound of sirens makes itself known, and America jolts out of the chair, blanching as she realizes what England has done.

"No!" She screams as England reaches out an arm to stop her, catching her by the wrist. "I don't need help! I'd rather die!"

England swallows painfully at this, wincing as he lets America's words sink in. "I'm worried about you, and the doctors at the hospital will know what to do to make you feel better. Don't you want to feel better, America?"

America gasps for another breath of crisp air, a whimper escaping her as she locks eyes with England again. They both know that she will not give this up without a fight.

It's unfortunate then, that her body is in no condition for fighting.

England restrains her easily, pinning her to the couch and holding her down as a series of knocks on the door follow. When America is too fatigued to move, England finally gets up and lets the visitors in, watching as the paramedics approach America and help her up and toward the awaiting ambulance.

"D-Don't need help," she murmurs as she collapses and the paramedics catch her just in time. The last thing she sees is the blur of red and blue lights piercing her burning eyes.

"Stupid girl."

America barely catches the sound of those words, eyes fluttering open before she squints from the bright lights overhead. She raises a hand to her temple, noting the IV protruding from her skin before turning toward the figure dutifully sitting at her bedside.

"Sleep well?" England asks harmlessly, restless as he stays glued to his chair, looking both dissatisfied and relieved at the same time. "If you ever do something so bloody reckless again I'll—Damn it, America. Why did you do this to yourself?"

Why? That's a funny question, really. America can't seem to find an answer to that one, so she merely stays still on the bed, indescribably tired.

"I have your glasses," England says when she doesn't respond. "Your contact lenses are probably dry and too painful to wear by this point."

He's right, of course, but America won't admit this. Wordlessly, she picks at her eyes and removes the pesky lenses, refusing to accept the glasses.

"Don't be a stubborn mule. I'm just trying to understand why—"

"Just shut up, England," America finally retorts, turning her back towards the man before attempting to catch up on some sleep.

England clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I'm not here to play games, America. This is serious. If you refuse to eat within the next hour, you're going to be force fed through a tube that will be inserted up your nose. Now, save us both the trouble of allowing things to get even more out of hand and just try to listen to reason."

She just wants to die in peace by this point, ashamed and humiliated by the entire situation, especially considering that England had gotten himself involved. "You don't understand!"

"I'm attempting to, but you're making it extremely difficult!"

America lets the ugly tears soak into her pillow without further comment. She has betrayed her body by losing—exchanged her integrity for the unrealistic possibility of acceptance. This never-ending nightmare will not cease to plague her, and she will have to live with the truth that she will never amount to the idealism that she seeks. She will never be enough—will never be able to settle for the person that she is.

"Don't cry," England begs, approaching her with a guarded vigilance. "I'm sorry for being cross with you. I simply want you to see how precious you are to so many people. Not to mention how devastated Matthew and I would be if anything happened to you. It isn't easy to carry the weight of a nation that seeks so much of you, but I know that you'll be able to find a love for yourself again—a joyful independence that you've always flaunted."

America digs her manicured hands into the clumps of sheets on the bed, letting out a quivering breath as England settles a hand on her head.

"You are beautiful, America, and anyone who doesn't see that isn't worth your time. As my former colony, I can assure you that if someone does undermine you or make you feel inferior in any way, they will have to answer to me."

America feels a smirk find its way to her lips, and suddenly, her tears are being brushed away by the tissue that England runs across her eyes, clad with a fond smile. "Your brother will be here as soon as possible," he reports softly. "He'll take you on a little vacation to Canada for a while to unwind after you leave the hospital. If you cooperate with the doctors, you'll be released soon. There will be follow-up appointments that you'll have to go to, however."

America nods, not feeling quite as miserable anymore as she let her eyes scan England's expression of genuine concern. "Thanks…"

"Get some rest for now and maybe you can try to eat something in a little while."

England makes it sound so easy, as though everything can be healed with the bite of an apple. The suggestion brings the elder comfort nonetheless, so America says nothing—only nods for his sake because the nation is getting older and has dealt with more than one of these types of predicaments before.

But just like those times before, America sees a glimmer of hope to restore things, realizing that her body is screaming at her for sustenance. She knows that she cannot subject herself to this any longer, despite the fact that it will not kill her. As a nation, she cannot easily die, but getting close to such a state would be just as awful and certainly more painful.

You are beautiful.

She lets the words marinate in her thoughts for a while, trying to pick apart the possibly sugarcoated lie. She knows that she has destroyed herself, and wonders if she can ever restore her features to their original forms.

Nevertheless, the far stretched wish of beauty was not worth this pain, and she would have to find a means to recover.

"Everything all right, America?"

She nods at England's inquiry, the rush of energy fleeting through her muscles.

She will never be pretty by her society's standards, but that's all right.

She knows that her virtue is somehow more important.

"This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, 'Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?' I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, 'No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.'" –Katie Makkai