A/N: Alright, so I suddenly just got this idea to write this. I don't have mental problems or anything, this story just kinda came to me at random.

Okay, so in this story, Matthew and Gilbert are both 16. The story is set in Canada. Second fanfic, reviews are appreciated. Be nice please! :)

EDIT 2/27/14: RABWAS will be on a temporary hiatus until my school year ends. Then I will have more time to make better chapters and stuff like that. Thanks for understanding :)

Warnings!: Emo!Canada, language, self harm, violence, boyxboy. Read at your own risk!

*Disclaimer: I do no own Hetalia or any of its characters.


The sharp blade slices cleanly through my forearm. A flash of pain follows. It hurts, but I am satisfied. I almost smile. The key word here being almost.

I can't even remember the last time I genuinely smiled.

I slash again. Another thin line of crimson red appears. I watch the warm, red liquid run down my arm, dripping into the sink. I look up at my reflection in the mirror and frown at the person I see looking back at me. The person everyone calls a faggot. The person who drove the people he cares about to hate him. The person whose only method of coping is causing self harm. Who could ever like someone like him, like me? I mean, I don't even like myself that much; why should anyone else?

No, it's worse than that.

And it sucks because they hate me because of something that's out of my control entirely.

I look away and add another cut to the collection on my right arm. I did my left arm last night; it's only fair for both of my arms to get scarred like this.

I repeat the process a few more times, finishing up the nightly ritual. I then wipe the blood off of my knife with a tissue. I take a long look at the pocket knife in my left hand. It was a Christmas gift from my dad, which I received 9 years ago. "Merry Christmas, son. Love you!" I remember hearing from him. Mom and Alfred were there too. Good times. But that was then and this is now.

Then being before the incident.

It all started four years after that Christmas. I met a guy at school named Francis. He had the most beautiful blond hair and bright blue eyes. We started talking, and I discovered we had a lot in common. We slowly began to fall in love, as time went on. I was a little surprised, as he was one of the most popular guys in my school. We eventually ended up dating. We kept it a secret; I had just come to terms with the fact that I was...erm, gay, and wasn't too keen on telling anyone, other than him. He claimed he was bisexual, so he understood. Although we only went on a couple actual dates, he would manage to send me little texts and kiss me when no one was around. Such a happy time. It was incredible. He was incredible, like a prince out of a children's fairytale book.

Of course, fairytales are only fantasy, and all have to end at some point.

Francis was a liar. Oh, he was good. Two months after we started dating, I came to school that morning only to hear shouts of "Queer!" and "Gay fag!". I looked to Francis, hoping to find a safe haven from the madness. He responded by punching me in the face (I had one heck of a black eye the next day, might I add) and leaning in, whispering, "I never loved you."

Since then, I have been relentlessly bullied.

The bullying eventually got so bad, the school had to call my parents about it, resulting in them discovering the secret I had been trying so hard to hide from them, from the rest of the world. That's when the drinking, the fighting, the bringing of other women home began. Alfred never got involved, good brother he was. Mom never wanted a gay son; that was made clear. The day the principal was called about it, when I came home, Dad was silent, as was Mom. I was told to go upstairs and go to bed early. The second they thought I was out of earshot, they started talking about me, about how to handle the situation I was in. The talking escalated into shouting. The shouting escalated into Dad marching out of the house, slamming the door behind him. I remember hearing Mom crying, and was glad that Alfred was spending the night with a friend; he was lucky didn't have to be here to deal with this.

Dad came back sometime during the night, after he assumed everyone had gone to bed, totally wasted and with a woman in his arms. I stayed awake every night after that, and every night was the same: Mom and Dad would fight, Dad would come back with some woman he met at a bar. It was a different woman each night, usually, but sometimes there would be one that would show up again a second or third time.

One day, of course, Mom found out. She was furious; I remember standing at the top of the stairwell, watching and she yelled at him and smacked him. That didn't stop him, though.

After a while, Mom got tired of dealing with everything and moved out, taking Alfred with her.

My dad has hated me since then for "driving his wife away with my queerness". I am thankful, however, that he has never beaten me. My school life is hell now. I walk to school instead of taking the bus, not really wanting to get beaten up by the kids on it. I have absolutely no friends to speak of. At home, I try to avoid my dad as much as I can. He calls me a disappointment, a pathetic excuse for a son. He never really gets involved in anything in my life these days. Mom never even calls anymore, so I assume she feels the same.

Cutting is my only outlet. Yes, I hate myself for resorting to such a drastic method of coping with how the rest of the world sees me; but it makes me feel free. Every cut I add to my body brings me a sense of release, if you know what I mean.

I wipe some of the excess blood off of my cuts with a few more tissues. I stuff the tissues and knife in my pocket, get some disinfectant, and proceed to bandage the cuts on my arm. I then decide to just go to bed. I'll just take a shower in the morning.

I quickly walk down the hall, hoping my dad didn't see me from his seat at the kitchen table downstairs, and into my room, gently closing the door. I sit down on my bed and tightly hug my stuffed polar bear, Kumajiro. He's only a stuffed animal, but he is kinder to me than any human I have met thus far; he doesn't insult me, or beat me, or tell me what a disappointment to society I am. I received him from Mom when I was three years old. He is the only source of comfort I have.

I take out the knife and put it in the drawer of the table beside my bed. I look around my bedroom, not really having anything to do. There is a bedside table lamp and a digital alarm clock sitting on the table beside my bed. There is a closet on the other side of the room, white door contrasting with the tan walls of my bedroom. The ceiling is also white. There is a window just big enough for me to stick my head out of on the left side of the room, and the door leading to the rest of the house is on the right side.

I crawl under the sheets, not bothering to change into my favorite red maple leaf pajamas, and turn off the lamp. I slowly drift off into dreamland, hoping tomorrow will be better than today.

Of course, a better tomorrow is highly unlikely, but acting like one will come makes me feel better.

Only a little, though.


A/N: Hopefully chapter 2 will be up soon. I haven't decided whether to introduce Gilbert in chapter 2 or 3. Hmmmm...

Stay tuned for next chapter!