Fat.
Stupid.
Arrogant.
Useless.
Those words had been used to describe America numerous times by the other nations, and each time he heard them, it was like a knife to his heart. They suffocated him, constricting his windpipes making breathing impossible.
It was a mystery when he started using those four words to describe himself. America doesn't remember when he started believing them, possibly sometime during the Cold War.
He tried. He tried so hard, but it was all in vain.
He had saved the people he had thought were his friends time after time, only for them to take it for granted and point out all of his flaws, beating him down to make their failures seem insignificant compared to his.
America couldn't even defend himself against their harsh judgments.
He was fat.
He was stupid.
He was an arrogant pig.
He was just so useless.
It was because he believed those phrases that he was able to put up with it for so long. Every day, England, the man who raised him, called him fat.
'America, you really need to stop eating fast food, it's the reason why you're so fat.'
Every day, France, who helped him during the Revolutionary War, called him stupid.
'Ah, just shut up Amérique, we don't need you and your stupid ideas to fix our economies.'
Russia insulted him every chance he fucking got.
'You should really just leave, you're such a capitalist pig it gives me a headache.'
China held his debt over his head.
'Ugh, you still can't pay it off? You're so useless, aru.'
He blamed himself for Canada's invisibility, because he constantly overshadowed his brother, not even meaning to. Canada never said anything, but America could see the resentment in Canada's eyes.
And the one time Canada did break, he let out everything. Everything he had ever wanted to say to America, he withheld nothing, not caring about how much his words impacted his brother.
That was the first time America let his true feelings show. Instead of laughing it off and plastering a big, fake smile on his face, he cried.
Canada apologized. He said it was wrong of him to say those things.
But he never took them back.
It was probably that that drove America to where he was now, on top of the UN building, with his legs dangling off the edge.
Or maybe it knew that the love of his life resented him for his choices in the past.
It was crazy, America's love for the person who helped make his life a living hell, it didn't even make any sense to himself. But the way those emerald eyes sparkled when they weren't clouded with anger; it took America's breath away.
He tried to adjust himself to England's ideal near the beginning. He stopped eating, didn't really say much at meetings, dressed appropriately, and threw away all of his video games. But England didn't notice. He had commented on America's attire once, but insulted his weight in the same breath, being unable to see just how far his ribs stuck out under the suit that was far too big for him now.
He regretted his revolution for some time, thinking that if he never revolted, England might still care about him. Be it as a brother, or more. England made it obvious that he hadn't forgiven America for that, and he had shown no signs of doing so in the future, either.
After awhile, he just gave up. England was never going to return his feelings, so why continue fighting the battle when the outcome of the war was already decided?
He loved them both dearly, his brother and England. They'd probably be happier when he was gone anyways. All the countries would celebrate the death of the world's superpower, Canada would finally get noticed, and England would end up with France.
In America's mind, that was the perfect world. The world where he didn't exist.
The fighting that was constant whenever he was around would disappear almost all together. Because, in some way, he caused it all. There would be small quarrels, of course, but would there ever be another war? Possibly, but he would never know.
America loved his country, he loved his people. But a lot of them could no longer say the same. People had begun to hate living in America, for various, idiotic reasons, and it hurt him so much every time some bratty teenager somewhere wished they could live anywhere but America.
With not even the love of his people to support him, America couldn't find a reason not to jump. He could feel guilt pooling in his stomach, because of his selfish wants; the people in front of the UN building were most likely going to be scarred for life after witnessing him fall thirty nine stories to the ground. He also felt for the people who would have to clean up the mess he left behind, if there was a mess, anyways. He might even just disappear as soon as he hit the concrete, fading away into history.
What would happen to the United States of America after he was gone, he had no clue. He could only think that someone would be there to take over his job. He was replaceable, after all.
A smiled grace America's face, and he rose to his feet, swaying slightly, his knees buckling because of how high up he appeared.
The stairwell door burst open, "America!", he flinched and swung around, watching the person he wanted to see least at that moment pant from the exertion they had used from running up the flights of stairs.
England's hair was a somewhat comforting sight for America, his run having messed it up even more then it usually was. His grip on the doorknob was incredibly tight, as he was using it to support his weight while he caught his breath.
A figure appeared from behind him, and the curl was a tell tale sign that Canada had indeed gotten the letter America sent him this morning, and informed the rest of the nations about it, because they were all soon pushing their way out of the stairwell and onto the roof.
America cursed his week resolve, mad at himself for caving in on his plan to not say goodbye to anyone, he just had to apologize to Canada for everything, he felt he wouldn't be able to go through with his plans had he not.
England slowly inched his way over to America, holding out his hand.
America tensed, and looked back over the edge of the building; it was less than a step away—
England stopped his advances, "Alfred," he spoke quietly, trying not to startle the younger nation, "please, come here, lad. Back away from the ledge."
America stared at the man he loved, studying the pleading and fear in his eyes, then he looked at his brother. Canada had tears dripping down his face, soaking into the fur of Kumajiro, who did not look pleased at all to be at this high an altitude.
His vision drifted back to the concrete below.
He had a choice on what to do then.
Step back and return to the two people who meant everything to him, but also return to the judgment, ridicule, and pain.
Or step forward and be free, with the price of never seeing his beloveds again.
America's smile had returned slightly.
In his whole life, he had never made an easier decision.
So what did America do? You decide.
I wrote this because I was bored, and when I'm bored, I like to write sad things. Bordem is a scary thing.
It's badly written, I know. Maybe one day I'll come back and rewrite it.
I like depressed, suicidal America.
Sorry for writing something so... bad.
~Ayai
Reviews are my crack, let me know how it was?