Trigger warning: Attempted suicide. Blood. Self-harm.
Survivor
Everything was ready. It had all been meticulously planned for a long time now, and every piece was in place.
The notes were written and in a box on his kitchen counter, each carefully scribed by hand. (He needed to explain to them that it was him who was the problem and it was his own decision so they would not waste time feeling guilty.) His will was secretly updated. (Despite being nations, he had one. They all did. Just in case...) His schedule was clear, not that anyone else knew. They all believed he was in D.C., not New York, so no one would interrupt him. (No one would come for him anyway.)
All that was left was the act itself.
Suicide.
It was a dirty word. A nasty word. A hated word. It made people flinch like it was the ugliest of curses.
To America, it was not dirty, or hated, or a curse. It was a blessing. It would make all his problems end.
Suicide would give him much-needed rest. It would give him peace. No more disappointing everyone. No more cuts and scars and tears. No more living.
America was not scared. He knew it would hurt, but he had suffered worse pains in his life. (No pain could be worse than the void in his heart that sucked all his happiness out of him and ground it into dust.)
So he dressed in old clothes, (He had plenty of suits for the funeral.) took some pain killers (He would not let pain and fear stop him.), grabbed a fresh razor (He had considered using a gun but that mess would be harder to clean up.), and sat in the bathtub. (He did not want to leave too much of a mess behind. He did not want to waste any more of anyone's time.)
He laid the razor against his flesh and angled it up his arm. The mistake some people made was going across the arm instead of up it. It took longer to die that way. America was not scared but he supposed he must be a coward. (Stupid fat selfish ignorant self-absorbed asshole.) He did not want to suffer too long. (He did not want someone to find him in time. He wanted to rest.)
His hands were steady when he made the first slice. (Up, not across like the other scars he put there.) Red blossomed and he did not hesitate to make another cut, and another, and another. (He had to be sure it worked. He needed to rest.) He moved to the other arm (His hand trembled.) and the razor slipped. It left a jagged slice behind, curving down the side of his arm.
America bit his lip. The pain was a bit worse than he expected. The dizziness was not a surprise. He let his hands fall and the razor slipped from his fingers. It clinked on the ceramic bathtub when it fell. (White and silver streaked with red.)
America closed his eyes and waited.
It would not be long now. His people would be fine. (Based on his research, Molossia would become their personification.) No one would miss him. (Stupid selfish fat America made the world worse with his presence alone.)
Canada would be noticed. England would be happy. France would not have to pretend to like him anymore. Japan would spend time with people that deserved his friendship. Russia would win at last.
They would be happy.
(Everyone would be better off with him gone.)
The pain dulled and faded away.
(The ache in his chest eased.)
He could not feel the bathtub or his blood anymore.
(He could not feel anything anymore.)
He could finally rest.
(He could finally rest.)
He woke up in the hospital.