SNAPPED! Canada
"Remember Me Now"
-CANADA'S POV-
Growing up, I was always the shy kid who was bullied and pushed around by the bigger, stronger kids. They laughed at me when I fell down, mocked me when I cried, and left me utterly embarrassed and ashamed of myself at the end of the day. I always found myself staring at my reflection in the boy's bathroom mirror, wondering why they liked to tease me and hurt me, but for some reason, I could never find the answer. Was it my long hair? It wasn't really that much longer than theirs. Was it my gravity defying curl? No, it couldn't be. My big brother America had a cowlick that popped out even more than my curl did. Maybe it was the color of my eyes. Did they hate the rare violet hue I'd been born with? Maybe, just maybe, that was the reason. But I'd never know for sure. So I decided to ask them.
Of course, that hadn't worked. When I tried asking them why they didn't like me, and then tried to reason with them, they'd beaten me senseless, and sent me home, bloodied, bruised, broken, and bawling my eyes out. No one could ever understand the pain I felt, not even my even older brothers, England and France. They definitely wouldn't be able to comprehend it. Of course, they tried, and they tried to stop the bullying, but in the end, nothing good came from it.
As my adolescent years drew closer, I became even quieter. I didn't like to speak up. I didn't like to fight with others, and I absolutely hated conflict. Home, which had, at one point, been my refuge, became another battleground. England and France fought; America and France fought; England and America fought. The only one who didn't fight was me, and that's because I was too busy being ignored. Even when I tried to step in to stop the arguments, to stop the fist throwing and the tantrums erupting from my brothers, I was invisible to them.
I ended up getting caught in the crossfires a lot. But if I was ever hit, no one seemed to notice, and if they did, they didn't care. I'd run off to the bathroom, holding a blackening eye or a bruising cheek, while tears carressed my face. My tears remained the only constant in my life, the only thing affectionate towards me.
When I hit 16 years old in human years, that's when the candles really burned out. Everyone who used to torture me suddenly stopped looking at me altogether. The family who used to love me suddenly didn't know I even existed. That birthday broke me. The only thing I got for it was a small, white polar bear that I ended up naming Mr. Kumajirou.
He was the only friend I had now, the only friend I would /ever/ have in my immortal life.
By the time I was old enough to attend World Conferences, I was always left out. Even if I stood up on the table and jumped around, begging for people to listen to me and my ideas, no one ever would. They looked right through me and continued arguing with people opposite of them.
After, if they'd run into me, they'd look around in horror, as if a ghost had run up to them and slapped them hard across the face, and then they'd dart off quickly. Occasionally, if they did see me, they'd mistake me for my big brother, America. If they didn't remember my name, they'd make it clear.
"Who are you?"
"Oh, um, I'm sorry. What's your name?"
"You're not America! Uh, what's your name again?"
"I can't quite remember your name... Who are you, again?"
Frustration and anger grew. Fingers wrapped up on themselves and hands balled up into fists.
I smiled sweetly, though a bitterness and hatred began to glow in my violet orbs.
Why did no one remember me?
"I'm /Canada./"
I would say that same thing over and over, and over again, vowing that the next person who asked would get a huge lecture, one they'd never forget. Of course, when that time came, I was never able to get the words out. I was never able to fight back.
When I was little, around five or six years old, and when I was being bullied, I constantly wondered: Why couldn't I be like them? Bigger, badder, stronger? Why couldn't I get up? Why couldn't I ever fight back?
I guess one could say, some things never change. I still wondered those same things, until one day, I'd had enough.
I'd been out in the woods collecting syrup from my maple trees, when America suddenly overstepped our border and came waltzing up to me like the arrogant jerk he is. Internally, I glared at him, wishing he'd collapse where he stood, and then roll back to whatever hole he'd crawled out of. From there, my thoughts only darkened.
He grew closer and closer, laughing obnoxiously, and waving at me like a maniac. "Oh, Canadia!" he yelled loudly.
When he was right in front of me, he tugged my curl. Hard. I let out a pathetic yelp, slapped his hand away, and placed my fingers on my tender scalp. "Don't cry ya' big baby!" he said, mocking my welling tears, before he slapped my back. "Anyways, I came over to here bring the dudes in America some maple syrup! Got any for me, bro?!"
So much pent up frustration...
"Not yet."
"Dude, hurry it up! We can't wait on you forever!"
So much anger...
"I'm going as fast as I can, eh."
"As fast as you can isn't fast enough, Canadia."
So much heart ache...
I lowered my head, bangs casting an eerie shadow over my eyes. My hands balled up into fists, and I growled out, "Canada. My name. Is. Canada."
"Chill out, Canadia, dude! You look evil!"
I'd had enough.
When I looked back up, my pupils had contracted and my violet eyes had turned mahogany. "I said my name is Canada, eh!" I shrieked, lunging at the American.
He jumped back, trying to dodge me, but my hands ended up curling around his throat. I wrestled with him until we both hit the ground, me straddling his waist, and him flailing around beneath me in futile attempts to get me off.
I smiled wickedly at the sight. His ugly, tan skin was losing its color and turning a beautiful shade of gray. His nasty looking lips began to fade into a blue-purple hue. His eyes dilated and contracted, dilated and contracted, until finally, all they did was leak tears. He continued to struggle, weakly grabbing at my wrists. "I'm CANADA!" I whispered, chuckling darkly. He watched me, horrified. "I'm CANADA!"
He couldn't breathe. His mouth began to open and close, as if he was trying to say something. Idiot. As if I'd listen to him now! After all these years of him ignoring me, why should I give him the chance to say one more word? I never got the chance to speak! He was always talking! Now... Now it was my turn to say something, something that the entire world was sure to hear!
America stopped moving beneath me. His hands fell from my wrists in the most ungraceful of ways and collided with the earth's floor. He had stopped breathing.
I stared down at him.
Had I... just taken a life?
Me, Canada, who hated all things revolving around violence? Me, Canada, who hated the thought of innocent people's blood being spilled during wars? Had I just murdered my older brother because I could?
I pressed my right hand to my face and stood up, towering over the corpse. But rather than cry, I started to giggle. It was quiet at first, and then it grew louder, and louder, and louder, until I was cackling out of pure hatred.
Revenge! I had /finally/ gotten sweet, sweet revenge on one of the people who had caused me the most mental and emotional distress!
But I... I wasn't done! Not with him. Not yet.
I bent over and grabbed his ankles and began dragging him back towards a small cabin I had in the woods, one filled with power tools and utensils I used for collecting tree sap.
Along the way, I began to sing a little nursery rhyme.
"There was a crooked man, who walked a crooked mile
He found a crooked sixpence, upon a crooked stile
He bought a crooked cat, who caught a crooked mouse
And they all lived together, in a little crooked house."
When I had arrived, I slung America's limp body inside and closed the door behind me, still grinning wickedly. "Well, well, /dude/, who's the loser now, eh?" I taunted, dragging the carcass up onto my work bench.
I stared at his body for a moment, before I stripped all of his clothing off and began dwelling over what exactly I wanted to do to him.
'Oh! Humiliate him! That's something, eh!'
With a wry smile, I set to my work. A hunting knife would do the trick for what I had in mind at the moment. And I think everyone knows where I began.
First to come off were the vitals he could have used to reproduce when the time had come.
Second to be removed were his fingers. I made sure to cut them all off, and dice them up. I'd feed them to big brothers England and France in a stew later! Finally, I removed all of his toes.
When I had finished there, I made a jagged cut from one shoulder blade over to the other. And from there, I made an incision that went down the middle of his chest to the base of his stomach, and tore the skin wide open so I could see just what made this man tick.
"Drill time, eh!" I muttered, chucking the knife somewhere behind me and reaching for my old, rusty drill. After all, I didn't want the new one I used to collect sap with to get dirty, not with this hoser's vile, disgusting blood!
Looking inside at his organs, I found myself wondering what I should play around with first. Maybe his heart! Ah, yes! The precious organ that kept that this obnoxious little prick alive should be the first thing to be punished! I pressed the small button at the base of my drill and began to poke holes all in the muscle, until it was spitting and spewing blood everywhere.
I laughed.
Laughed at the fact that he couldn't do anything to stop me now.
When that was done, I reached down and pulled his intestines out and being the angry (but kind) little Canadian I was, I tied them into a heart, and placed them back inside of his body.
The stomach and kidneys recieved my full attention next. We'll just say I cut the stomach open, placed the kidneys in, and sewed the abdomen right back up for good measure! If you haven't figured out why I did it, think of the phrase, "Eat shit." Maybe you get it now.
To finish up with this asshole, I worked my way back up to his face. Then, I forced his eyes open.
Although I absolutely despised the thought of ruining my sap gathering equipment, I forced the drill down into his eye sockets, made holes that ran an inch and a half deep, and then began forcing tubing and such in, along with my spouts, down into the holes. The liquidated form of his eye balls leaked down his cheeks and I cackled.
Of course, my equipment was replaceable. This moment never would be...
Several days after that incident, I shipped his body over to England and France as a warning. England was the first to find America's mangled corpse, rotting and decaying in the boat that I had sent. How do I know? I went with the present I'd sent so I could see his reaction! Brilliant, eh?
England let out a shriek of absolute horror. He stumbled backwards, knocking several jars of maple syrup over, and breaking several of my newest pipelines, tubes, and conduits. I'd expected as much from that idiot.
He pulled the corpse into his arms, sobbing hysterically. "A-America!"
Suddenly, his head began to rise up from the dismembered body of his little brother to the wall next to him.
He stared on in horror at the words that greeted him in blood:
"Remember me now.
...I'm Canada.
...And you're next."