Ever have those days where it seems like every muscle in your body strains to get out of bed? You feel your eyelids began to adjust to the harshness of light, the brightness becoming more and more visible. Your limbs start to move as you inch your way across your home- back slouched and preparing for your day…
But every day for Canada was a day of survival. Every. Fucking. Day. A constant repetition of, "why am I even bothering?" or "How should I get past these next 24 hours?" He slouched his way through the halls of the UN building, past Cuba's aggression and England's too-cool-for you attitude, acting like it was all a big joke. But the second he walked through the door to his home, he unloaded. He let loose his tears and sobbed on the couch until the pain from his neglection turned to a numbing throb. He got that lovely little kitchen knife set out, an expensive crested box of cutting tools, and slit until he was satisfied. Which sometimes lasted for a full hour, letting the blood flow from his dark blue veins into the black leather couch beneath him. It was sick.
He got into designs and words after the first few times he did it. His virgin cut was nothing more than a few spur of the moment scratches with a pair of tweezers in the bathroom. No blood, but it meant to do some damage. That was cutting. In his sense, anyway. Then he went to the big boys- after his initial shock and realization that this felt… empowering. All the pain he felt, what was a little more? He could control just exactly how much blood flew through him, when he could end it.
It just depended on the mood and time of day what he would carve into his skin. Sometimes there was no pattern, just angry red scratches until the skin broke. He didn't always knives around, as it would attract attention, so he searched aimlessly in the bathroom until he discovered there was nothing in there to cut with either. The self-hate boiled in his blood until it felt like he was a glowing lava lamp, ready to burst from the utter madness inside him.
I regret to say that tears flew in vast amounts one day. It had been… "One of those days." Cuba had gotten angry, and furious from a drunken night and America's teasing, punched him so bad in the eye Canada could hardly see what he was cutting. England and Austria snickered at him from across the meeting, after realizing that he had been there and no one noticed. Russia had sat on him, unaware he was there for a full hour and Canada was too humiliated to say anything. The blush inflamed him to the core- his heart had beat really fast until he rushed to the bathroom. Not that anybody saw, anyway.
He was letting loose again. He pulled up his uniform and tried to find a blank spot he could design. There was a dark blue vein in his wrist, and having full idea what he was doing, slit to the side with a razor, upwards and downwards until red liquid poured onto the floor. It took a while, but eventually his head knocked to the toilet paper dispenser, and he looked down. He couldn't see anymore. That black eye really had hurt him! Cuba must've been working out. He was feeling dizzy. Canada tried to remember what was what, who was who, but his mind blanked out. There was just that puddle of blood, blackness fading into more darkness, and then… nothing. Nothing at all. Just a forgotten body of sadness sagging on the toilet seat.
Words hurt. Please think about what you say before you say it?