I hate myself.

I tell myself to no one. Because no one is ever there to listen.

What's to like?

All I am is a weak country that never seems to get anything done. All I am is a silly baby whom only eats pasta. All I am is a child whom can't go to war. Because I'm just too weak. That's what they think anyways.

Honestly, if war stole your first love away—if war murdered your grandfather, the only man you thought of as your father… You would hate it too. But I'm too weak to go through wars. Too feeble. Germany has to protect me! Ve~ Germany! Help! Freaking. Save. Me. Like you always do.

No, I'm not too weak, what do you think I did in the Mafia ages? They think that was mostly Romano's doing, but the truth is It was mostly me. Romano is too afraid of who I was to ever say anything, perhaps afraid I'll return. Maybe I will. After all, no one loves a weak country. No one loves Hetalia.*

Every one of those people that were tortured and killed on my behalf. Perhaps it was then that I was really fed up with everything in the world. I had to take it out on someone. I must admit, I have to feel some remorse. Some. Not necessarily a lot.

Even my speech is stupid. I can't help these idiotic Ve's that somehow force themselves out during every other sentence. I try each day not to say them… Yet somehow they traitorously scream themselves out through my burning throat.

Ve~ Germany, Germany! I'm so weak, I can't run for training! Let's just go inside and eat pasta.

The only thing I ever liked about my life was pasta. It was the only thing that held some memory of my happy past. Grandpa Rome would always come and make the best pasta… We would eat it together and be a happy family with Romano. Even he wasn't bitter when there was the plate of elation in front of him.

But I've tried and tried and tried and failed at making his pasta and I'm such a disgrace. I practice every day so that I may make it just like him… But all I am is weak even in the culinary arts.

So I guess that covers everything. That's why I'm here.

Locked in my bathroom with the water running, blade in hand.

I've heard there were easier ways to kill yourself, but I figured this would be torturous enough. I only deserved it after all.

I felt no emotion at all—not even pain—as I slit my own wrist.

The blood seemed to flow endlessly down my forearm.

Nothing happened.

I tried cutting more, yet my heartbeat stayed the same. The same sickening pace. The pace that proved I was alive.

I cut everything I could see. I cut my chest, both of my arms, my legs, my face even. I put a large gash in my neck for good measure.

I finally felt the pain that came with it. It rushed through my veins—what was left of them anyways. It coursed through my body. The water in the tub that was once crystal-clear was now scarlet. Red always has been my favorite color.

I felt my consciousness slipping away and I smiled. A crooked version of that silly grin I always put up as a show. A cracked version.

I felt my limbs go… weak. And then I lost control of my body. The tub overflowed and poured the water onto the tiles. Blood was endlessly cascading out of my body.

A dark chuckle crawled out of my lips. Even my own blood thinks I'm too weak that it must escape me. I thought—No—I knew.

At last the effect had reached my heart and I felt my pulse slow. I would have rejoiced if I hadn't been to freaking weak to do so. I closed my eyes and hung my head back. My auburn hair was now plastered to my forehead. My stupid curl at last was flattened with down with the rest of my hair.

My smile broadened, and that was my last action before I slipped under the carpet to the other side, welcoming death with warm arms.

.

..

…

I jolted awake.

I looked around me, yet I was still in my bathroom. My cuts were now disgusting. The water had run cold. How could I still be alive?

I willed myself out of the stupid bath tub. I winced at the pain in my legs as my bare feet touched the cold tiles. But my body was cold, too, so it didn't feel like much. I looked at myself in the accursed mirror.

I looked revolting. Like I'd just come back from the grave. From being murdered. . Like I crawled out of one of America's horror movies. And in a way, I had. My hair was gross, my body was tainted a faint red color, my gashes and cuts were closed with dry blood, everything was horrid.

I clenched my teeth and punched the mirror with whatever I had left in me. Which wasn't much. Because I'm so weak.

The mirror broke, nonetheless.

Honestly what a failure I am.

Because I'm too weak to even kill myself. I'm on this tantalizing cycle of pain and discomfort. Misunderstandings. All because I'm too weak to end it.

I'm too

Weak.

Mwahahaha no thing like writing a snapped!Italy story right when you wake up! Lovely way to start the day. I've always believed that countries were immortal and could never kill themselves, so that's why it ended like that. I also tried to make it like he wasn't actually weak, it was just in his head. (Hence the mirror breaking.) Anyways, thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed!

*In case you didn't know, Hetalia is a Japanese pun, combining Hetare (A childish word for stupid or weak) and Italia. (Japanese for Italy)