Still, there are days

When there's no way

Not even a chance

That he'll dare for even a

Second glance

At the reflection of his body in the mirror and I know why

England was a jerk, but he had his reasons.

Peter Kirkland, who would definitely absolutely one day be recognized around the world as the great nation of Sealand, knew some of those reasons, even if he pretended not to. He knew if England knew he knew, something bad would happen.

Wales and Scotland and Ireland didn't have the last name Kirkland. Neither did America. Or Canada, or Hong Kong, or India, or anyone else who'd been England's colony. Only little Sealand had the name Kirkland. The reason for that was that England was perfectly right when he said Sealand wasn't his brother.

Peter Kirkland was Arthur Kirkland's son.

It had been late at night, probably almost midnight, and Peter had sneaked into England's house to wake the jerk up and make England acknowledge him at last, but England foiled his plan by already being awake. He almost busted in anyway, except when he pressed his ear to the door, he heard crying.

"I can't do this." He heard England say, sounding like someone had just shot his cat. "I can't. I can't take it anymore."

There was a long pause, then England laughed, sounding bitter and angry. "Easy for you to say- you raped me, not the other way 'round."

A short pause, another bitter laugh, sounding sort of hysterical.

"So? Does that make this easier? Does your being fucking sorry make the nightmares go away? Does it change the fact that ievery bloody time/i that brat looks at me, I see you in him? iDoes it?/i"

Peter couldn't hear much but muffled sobbing now, and he bit his lip. He usually hated jerk England with all his mighty heart, but right now he wanted to go in and give him a hug and tell him everything was going to be all right.

"Shut up. Just shut up." England was talking again, and Peter pressed his ear back against the door. "I should never have kept him, given him my name, given him a home. I should have dumped him on you. I should have got an abortion the minute I figured out I was with child. Shut up! You've no call to tell me what is and isn't right! Sealand is your son, too, you bastard! I hope you both burn in Hell!"

The phone slammed down in the cradle, but Peter barely heard it, already slipping down the hall and away. Away from England, away from whoever had been on the phone, away from the awful truth of where he came from and what he was and the million terrible things he was thinking and feeling.

He wanted to go home and go to bed. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to forget everything he overheard, just erase it all from his memory like erasing words on a chalkboard, but he knew he wouldn't be able to. There was no way to escape it.

He was the child of rape.

Peter knew what rape was. He knew how to read, he was smart, he'd heard about it on the news and everything. He'd just never known guys could be raped. Or that they could have kids. But now he knew they could on both counts, because England had been raped and then given birth to him.

He didn't dare change the way he acted. He couldn't let England know he'd heard that call, though it gnawed on the back of his mind and made him edgy and restless.

England was his father. And he had another father somewhere, someone who'd hurt England bad. So bad he had nightmares about it.

Part of him wanted to meet his other father and ask him why. Had he wanted a kid? Then why not come back for him when England didn't want him? Had he just wanted to hurt England? Had their been some other reason? Had he been forced to? Paid? Or did he do it just because?

Another part of him wanted to meet his other father and kill him. England was a jerk, but he was the only family Peter knew, and even if he acted like he hated Peter, he'd still built him a home. He hadn't gotten an abortion. He hadn't shipped him off to Africa. He hadn't even really abandoned him, just sort of shunted him off to the side and ignored him for the most part once Peter was old enough to take care of himself. And if someone had hurt England, then someone should be forced to pay.

But the only person who knew who his other father was was England, and he couldn't let England know he knew, so he'd have to accept he'd never find his other father.

Notes

Just quickly, the words at the beginning are from a poem called Blue Blanket, by Andrea Gibson. It's the poem that really inspired me to write this. I'm going to put passages at the beginning and end of each part, though I am going to change gender pronouns and such, and a few later passages that I couldn't change without completely ruining them will have been omitted. And the copy I have was typed up from memory by someone else, so... yeah.

I'm sorry for messing with your poem, Ms. Gibson! ;-;

Thank you for reading this, and thank you in advance to all the people who'll stick it through to the end with me. orz