Gossamer Wings and Crimson Eyes
So I've been reading a bunch of faerie-related stuff lately, so I was inspired to write a thing about England. And since faeries aren't always that nice, this fic will be pretty damn dark.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: SELF HARM, SUICIDE, CHARACTER DEATH, and HALLUCINATIONS
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The first time he saw her, he couldn't believe she was real. Out of all his faerie friends, none of them were as radiant or majestic as she. Her slightly blue skin was so thin that it was almost translucent. Her white hair trailed down to the floor in wild ringlets. Her white, papery gown flowed and swayed with the slightest of breezes. A large pair of gossamer wings sprouted from her back. But even more captivating than her other features were her eyes. They were of the brightest crimson that seemed to glow with an equally crimson light. However, once he blinked, she was gone.
The second time he saw her, he was alone in his bathroom, about to take a shower. She simply appeared, and gestured toward his razor before vanishing into thin air. He didn't understand what she meant, so he took his shower and awaited her next visit.
The third time he saw her, he understood exactly what she was telling him to do. This time, he was reading in his bedroom. She brought his attention away from the book and toward her. Then, from the rippling folds of her gown, she removed a glistening blade. He watched as the beautiful faerie slid the blade across the smooth skin of her pale blue wrist. She then stepped toward him and held out the blade. Once he took it, she disappeared once more.
As he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt, he could only vaguely hear the protests of flying mint bunny, trying to stop him. He ignored his friend and held the blade to his own wrist. He sliced once. Twice. Three times before a pair of hands grabbed his arms, forcing him to stop. When he looked up, he saw that the pair of hands belonged to France. Normally, he would have screamed at the other country for entering his home without permission and touching him. But he didn't feel angry at all, or even irritated. He felt calm, almost empty. He felt absolutely nothing when he saw tears start streaming down France's face, and he didn't react when France asked him why he would be doing something like this. He just sat perfectly still, feeling his blood drip down his arm.
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"England?" France questioned. "Are you alright?"
When England continued to be entirely unresponsive, France's worry skyrocketed. Never in all the years France had known him had England acted even remotely like this. And never in all the years France had known him would he have guessed that England would cut himself.
Warily, France went over to the phone and called America.
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He felt a new pair of hands grab him, hugging him, holding him. He could tell that it was America, and he could tell that he was sobbing. But yet again, he felt nothing. As America sobbed and demanded answers, France began to wrap his wounds in a bandage. This was when he reacted. He ripped his arm away and stood up before scurrying to one of the corners of his bedroom and curling in on himself. The blood was so pretty, just like the faerie's eyes, and they were trying to cover it up. The pair of countries attempted to get him to uncurl himself and allow them to bandage his wrists, but he refused to let them. He continued to sit in his corner until his world slowly faded to black as sleep overtook him.
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"What do ya think's wrong with 'im?" America asked worriedly.
"I wish I knew," France replied. "I've never seen him, or anyone, act like this before. I'm not even sure if he knew what was going on."
America nodded.
"I hope that, whatever it is, he'll snap out of it when he wakes up," America wished softly.
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When he awoke, he could feel something coiled around his wrists. In horror, he saw a pure white snake wrapping itself around his pretty red wounds. He grabbed the serpent, trying to tear it away, but felt two pairs of arms restraining him, gently at first, but harder as he struggled more and more to break free. His struggling continued until he tired himself out, and had no energy left to fight them or vanquish the snake.
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"This is so not good," America said grimly.
"I think we should call the doctor," France replied.
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He vaguely registered a man wearing a white coat trying to talk to him. He didn't answer any of the man's questions. He didn't even know if he could. However, at one point, the faerie returned, and he could see her over the strange man's shoulders. When he noticed how similar the shades of white of their clothes were, he started laughing. It was so funny. They looked nothing like, and yet they both wore that same color that swallowed everything and left you with the vision of crimson red.
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When England started laughing, he sounded mad. The laugh was soft and choppy, and it had a childish quality to it. Both the other countries and the doctor were taken aback. Along with the eerie laughter, they had also noticed his eyes. They were wide with glee, looking innocent and unfocused on the world around him. They were the eyes of a madman.
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Eventually, the man in white left, but the beautiful faerie remained. She held up her arm, still bleeding, and then pointed at his own. He immediately understood, but found that his blade has disappeared. His laughter grew louder when r=he realized that either France or America must have taken it. They were fools. Quickly, he reached into his pocket and removed another knife. When the pair saw it, their eyes widened in fear. They tried to grab the blade out of his hand, but they were too late. He plunged the blade into his chest, right into his heart. The man in white then reappeared, trying to stop the crimson from leaving his body. He struggled, not wanting him to take away the pretty shade. But it didn't matter. His vision was starting to turn black once more.
The final thing he saw was the beautiful faerie, her eyes now as green as his had once been.
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Yeah… Maybe it's weird since I'm in high school, but I really like faeries, especially the malevolent ones…
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story.
~The Squirrel