He stared at the knife in hand, and the blood that was leaking from his wrists
He was the bloody United Kingdom, and yet the marks on his arms told another story
A story about a lost soul trying to find his place in the world, taking his anger out for what he was
He didn't care if the blood coated the white porcelain tiles in the bathroom floor
He didn't care whether anyone found his body
He was England, and he never surrendered
When the world never went his way, he didn't complain or moan
He continued with his life
Till the pressure got too much
No drinks could hide his pain, no music could break his ears and cause more pain then he's already suffered
He can feel his body losing conscious now
Everything's going black
It doesn't hurt, he's had too much pills of anything to hurt now
And he doesn't stop smiling
But he known's its not over yet
Once he's found dead, the police will ask questions
Blame his closest friends for his death
Other will get hurt too
But who cares?
It'll be fun for someone to feel his pain for once
He wonders whether anyone will remember him
Why?
Why would they want to remember someone like him
Someone like England
Someone like Arthur Kirkland
The one wanting someone to say
"I'll always remember you"
Quite depressing even for me but, its a change, ive got more fanfics coming, including PrUK wich im happy about
And yes as of I know I DO OWN HETALIA! (seriously i has the creator hostage here)