Canada sighed as he dropped his head to look at his hands politely folded in his lap, not wanting to look at the walls of the conference room that were staring at him. He should have known this would have happened. How could he have been foolish enough as to think someone would actually notice him? No one ever did so what difference did today make?
He had woken up extra early, taken a long shower, dressed in his nicest uniform and had even come without his polar bear confidant. Canada had arrived at the conference room a half hour early and made sure to wave and say hello politely to every nation that walked through the front door. Not one person said hello back or even looked at him. They just brushed past and kept walking towards their seat as if he was invisible.
What was he thinking? It wasn't as if he was invisible, he was invisible. That was the truth and he figured he'd have to learn to accept it. He should have been used to it. He had performed the same routine for years on end when he hear about a conference, forbid he should ever be informed. Always he was treated as invisible.
Canada could understand shyness as the reason why some countries wouldn't want to speak with him. That he could bare, but what he couldn't stand was being ignored by those who supposedly used to "love him".
When England walked in Canada would always smile and say hello more cheerfully than others. Today in particular he had actually stood up and waved to England, saying hello and adding the French term l'ami to the end. England just walked past after bumping their shoulders together harshly.
When France entered the room Canada would always hope he remembered how close they used to be when Canada was little. Today he had stood close to France and greeted him the most proper he could by saying," Bonjour mon pere, comment t'allez vous?"
France had looked at him with cold and skeptical eyes, and then before leaving said to him in a flat voice," Ca va mal avec toi ici."
When Cuba had walked in Canada would always pray he remembered exactly who he was. Today in particular Canada had started to ask if he wanted to do something the following weekend but Cuba had hit him square in the face telling him to," Shut up America, you're pissing me off."
America… America was the worst of them all. America was the one who had hurt Canada the most severely. He was horrible and deceitful and a liar because he was the one who actually made Canada believe he loved him. America had gotten through Canada's wall of silence and solitude and slowly broken it down bit by bit until he got the real part of the Canadian's heart.
Canada had known America his whole life so why wouldn't he trust him? They were "brothers" after all. Canada couldn't have known any different at the time, America was his first love.
It had been sudden but not unwanted. America, after years of acquaintanceship, had taken an interest in Canada. It started with America showing up unexpectedly at his front door asking if he wanted to take a walk. Canada had agreed and before the both of them knew it three hours had passed and they were in the middle of the woods in the dark. After a few weeks taking walks turned into America asking Canada to dinner, then coming to his house, and then ending with America confessing his feelings. America looking him straight in the eyes with hands held in his, blue eyes against blue, and speaking the three words Canada thought no one would ever say to him.
I love you.
Looking back Canada thought himself foolish. Back then he never would even think to consider that America didn't mean it. He would never think that America would say those same words to countless other people. He would never think America was lying. How stupid he had been…
It had been great though. Living with America and having him in his life as a lover. How many days were spent with kind words and loving embraces. How many times America would smile at him and it would make his heart pound. How many instances where America had pulled Canada into his lap and held him for what seemed like hours. How many countless times America had lead Canada into the bedroom and made love to him, always leaving Canada's heart pounding and breath rough. How many times America had said to him in so many different tones those three words.
I love you.
Now… those words brought nothing but sheer pain. Canada wished all the happy memories would go away and leave him alone. He wished he could pass out for a while and wake up with his brain wiped clean of all remembrance. Why he felt so awful about America now? Simple reason actually. America was the only one in Canada's life and then one day, suddenly, he left and completely destroyed him.
Canada had woken up one morning to see America sitting on the couch quite solemnly with a sad expression on his face. Canada knew what he was going to say. He knew why America looked so sullen. He knew what was going to happen. But hearing the words just made the pain worse.
I don't love you anymore.
Canada's eyes had widened and tears had started to spill uncontrollably.
I want to see other people.
Canada had started to sputter that he could change or back off and that he would do anything just as long as America would stay.
I'm sorry; I just don't want to be together anymore.
But…they had been together for almost five years… they were so close… America said he loved him… Canada loved him.
Canada had fallen silent and had simply nodded. America didn't apologize, didn't hug Canada goodbye, and didn't even say a word. America just went upstairs, got his things, left his key to the house on the table, and left.
That was four years ago and Canada could still feel the exact same pain. He could still hear the door closing. He could still hear America's fading footsteps. He could still hear himself screaming. The hurt never went away.
Canada knew he should have known better and known he should have moved on by now but…America… he was too memorable. He had lifted him up too high and had left him with too big of scars. It was impossible to push past. Too others he looked perfectly fine and cheerful, as if nothing ever bothered him. But on the inside… he was dying. There was hardly anything left.
This empty conference room just made it worse. It just reminded him how lonely he felt and how alone he actually was. America on the other hand was doing quite well. He apparently hadn't even been fazed.
In the past four years America had been with Mexico, that had lasted about a year and two months, England, that was doomed to fail from the start of the ten month relationship, Russia, they fought too much so they lasted about six or seven months, Japan, America had gotten bored after a year or so, North Italy, they had broke up after Germany had gotten jealous about three months later, and now America's new "love interest", Lithuania.
A part of Canada told him that he himself was more important than America's other lovers since America had been with them for such short amounts of time and he had stayed with Canada for five years. Another part of Canada told him that was only because America had been young and didn't know any different.
"I can still hear his voice…" Canada said to no one as he felt the sting of tears starting to well. It wasn't uncommon for Canada to think back on the only time in his life when he had been happy. It also wasn't uncommon for him to remember America's harsh words…
I don't love you anymore.
His heart was breaking again… hurting too much… it was getting to painful again…
I want to see other people.
Tears alone weren't making it any better or the quieted screams that were coming from his mouth…
I'm sorry; I just don't want to be together anymore.
He didn't want to do this… not here, he wanted to wait until later… but he could barely even hold in the screams now… the tears were drowning him…
That was it. His eyes widened and panicked as he searched for something, anything. His shaking fingers found a fine point pen and his breath quickened. His head darted back and forth, confirming the room was empty and he heard no footsteps. Slowly he lifted the sleeve of his left arm to the elbow and looked at the flesh of his underarm.
It looked like someone had laced the pale skin with red and brown thread, making mistakes in some sports where the wounds were too deep and were screaming pink. You could barely see the white of his skin on his arms anymore. His arm was red, screaming and angry, criss-crossing everywhere, except around his wrist where it was untouched. He didn't want to die; he just wanted the pain he felt inside to stop.
Maybe he should do it on his right arm this time… well his right arm wasn't much better. Besides he had to write with that hand and if he winced too much or opened a wound by accident someone might get suspicious… not that anyone would care.
Canada pressed the tip of the pen to a random spot on the underside of his forearm and dragged it across the already marked skin harshly. He felt the sting and the skin opening beneath the sharp point. He pressed even harder and saw blood following the object in his hand. His breathing was getting harder from the excruciating pain but anything was better than feeling his heart break.
Scratch…breaking skin…cut…more blood…tear… little streams of the red liquid. Tears dripped from his eyes and mixed with his blood now starting to drip onto his dark pants. He hadn't thought to bring bandages… how stupid he was.
He kept carving into his arm, both the underside and the upper until all the cuts mixed together and until he couldn't feel pain anywhere anymore. He kept going though…warding off the hurt as much as he could. Eventually he went to his right and started to cut there as well. He sighed as he was about to drag the point across the equally mutilated skin when suddenly he heard a gasp from behind him.
Canada's eyes widened and he sharply turned his head to see who was standing there. His eyes met his original source of pain.
America stood there gaping at him, his eyes wide and confused, and his body frozen where it stood. Neither of them said a word and Canada could feel America's eyes looking at his arms over and over again.
Canada felt fear and shame from the fresh and old self inflicted wounds on his arms and he was curious to what America was thinking about him.
"I-I forgot…my pen and papers…" Canada looked at the pen in his hand and wondered how he could have missed that it was America's engraved pen. The name 'Alfred F. Jones' was engraved in gold script on the side and it was hard to miss… now it had Canada's blood on the tip… he stupidly hoped America wouldn't be mad.
Canada hurriedly pulled his sleeves down, fully knowing it was too late to hide them, and held the pen out to America. The red was already starting to seep through the white of his coat.
"H-Here…I-I'm sorry…I-I'll p-pay for a n-new one…" Canada avoided America's eyes and felt the other man's fingertips brush against his own taking the pen from his hand. But then he felt America's hand slowly close around his wrist and turn his arms over so that the cuts were facing upward. He gently pulled up his sleeve and the air stung his fresh wounds as did the position he was in and he instinctively tried to pull away. America just kept a hold on his marked arm.
"…What are you doing to yourself…?" America asked him this quietly, his voice quiet but yet strained. Canada tried to pull his arm away once again but this time America pulled him up from his chair. He held up Canada's arm in front of his face, making their own see them while they were scabbed, some still bleeding.
Canada turned his head away and said quietly, not fighting anymore," Like you care…" Canada bit his bottom lip and felt America's blue eyes going back and forth from his sad and pained face to his cut up arm.
America sighed softly and he too cast his gaze in a different direction, still keeping his hold on the Canadian. Out of the corner of his eye Canada saw America pull tissues out of his pocket and felt them being pressed gently onto his fresh cuts. His other arm was starting to drip onto the floor and he was getting a bit dizzy.
"Here, come with me, I'll bandage you up." America said pulling gently on his hand, gesturing him to follow. Canada eyed him a bit skeptically wondering why all of a sudden he was so important. America hadn't spoken two words to him years. Why the sudden attention?
"Where are we going…?" Canada asked quietly as he walked down the hallway with America who was still holding bloody tissues to his arm.
"I'm taking you home." Canada's heart fluttered like butterflies at the sound of these words. His mind must have not been too clear since he thought dumbly that America was taking him to his house and staying. Canada thought of home as wherever America lived with him and stayed. Unfortunately he misinterpreted.
"You have band aids at your house right?" America questioned looking at Canada who hadn't responded. Canada knew he was dumb to think America was actually taking him back but a near silent sigh escaped his mouth anyway. He simply nodded feeling his heart break into even more pieces.
He wished America would let go of his arm. The touch was too gentle and comforting…too believable.
The life span of depression, how horrible and how strangling it can be. Of course having the one person who made life better break your heart doesn't help matters either. I'm aware this is a touchy and a complex subject, how does one write about the topic of self-mutilation, but I believe to accept the truth we must first face it. In a sense, I can personally relate to this on a few different levels and I tried to capture the essence of pain to the best of my abilities.
This is my apology for being so inactive and for not updating in so long. I apologize! Things happen and life runs a course! This is only the first chapter of this series, which I intend to be somewhat short, and I will be changing the rating to M at a later date since it looks as though I'm going to be bringing this into "that" department.
Thanks for reading~!