Pumped Up Kicks

The American rummaged through his father's closet, coming across a small box. It was old, dusty, and duct taped shut. Curiosity, like usual, got the best of Alfred as he grabbed the box, pulling it out and blowing the dust off it. He set it on the bed carefully, just in case there was something fragile in there. He didn't want to break it; for fear that his father would discover his snooping. Yet again, the box was covered in so much dust, he was sure his father had most likely forgotten it was buried in the back of his closet.

He pulled out his pocket knife (he always carried it with him—where he lives, he needed some sort of protection, even if it wasn't much help against guns) and ran it across the duct tape. It split easily, unlike most boxes duct tape so tightly shut. It was definitely old.

Inside of the box where various things, though nothing seemed interesting to Alfred. He dug around further into the box until his hand hit cold metal. What was that…?

He slowly pried it from the bottom of the box, eventually pulling it out from the sea of random stuff his dad had seeming kept for no reason.

A gun.

Since when did his father ever use a gun?

Well, there were secrets everyone kept about themselves. This was his dad's. But what did his dad use it for? He made a mental note to ask, but on the other hand, he remembered he wasn't even supposed to know about this gun or the box.

The gun felt heavy in his coat pocket. It reminded him what his pocket knife had felt like when he started carrying it around as a seventh grader. Of course, he was a senior now. Only a month left in this place. He hated it here—being stuck in a place that resembled a jail more than a school. He paused in front of his locker, a thought hitting him with full force.

He had a gun. A loaded gun. And he was in a place where everyone hated him. And he hated them back.

He only had six bullets. And he knew people would shoot back. He glanced around. Names already were flying about his brain. Arthur Kirkland. Ivan Braginski. Francis Bonnefoy. Lovino Vargas. Gilbert Bielschmidt. And then, of course, himself.

So, he was going to die today. He should've left a note for his father. Or not, he didn't really like him all that much. He grabbed his books from his locker and walked slowly to first hour—the first bell had rung long ago while he had been thinking. Not that it mattered, the detention would never be served.

Like most of the students in the room, he was writing.

Unlike most of the students in the room, he wasn't taking notes.

He was writing his final words. They weren't even his own, either.

Lunch came around. The five people he needed were scattered in the large cafeteria. He sat down at one of the few empty tables, and he was lucky for once—he could see all five of them. Ever so slowly, he pulled the gun from his pocket. He would have to do this fast. First up: Arthur Kirkland.

The Brit sat across the cafeteria, looking up occasionally from his book to say something to the people around him.

A gun shot rang out, screams following the sound. Arthur slumped onto the table, and the girl next to him stared in shock. "Arthur!"

Ivan's eyes scanned the cafeteria, his own gun already in hand. Who—

A second shot. Ivan never even knew.

Three shots. Almost everyone knew who it was, and the cafeteria was in chaos at this point. Francis was laying in the middle of the cafeteria, eyes wide with shock and fingers reaching up to touch the blood coming from his stomach.

Four. Sobs were escaping little Feliciano Vargas, cries for his older brother to please wake up.

Five… There goes the definition of awesome itself. "Gilbert, no!"

Alfred stood at the front of the cafeteria, holding the gun tightly in his hand, one bullet left, all eyes in the room focused on him. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and setting it on the table he had been sitting at moments before. He was humming a quiet tune to himself as he moved the gun to his head, placing it at his temple. There goes the last bullet. Blood fell like rain.

One girl stepped forward, staring at him and picking up the blood splattered note.

(READ THE EDIT ON THE AUTHOR'S NOTE- IT EXPLAINS WHY THE NOTE ALFRED WROTE ISN'T ON HERE.)

EDIT (6/8/2012): Because we can no longer upload song lyrics, I had to delete the note Alfred wrote. It was the chorus to "Pumped up Kicks" (duh) by Foster the People. I'm sorry, but I just don't want to take any risks.

WHAT DID I JUST WRITE? D:

This is what happens when I drink too much pepsi and listen to music.

I feel bad for making Alfred snapped. It makes me sad…

By the way, you already know, but I don't own the song Pumped Up Kicks or Hetalia. Mhm.

I'm curious, how was this? It's just a drabble, but I still would like to know. Review please?

Peace. Love. Anime.

~hetalia-deathnote-kuroshitsuji~