Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Copyrights go to Hidekaz Himaruya.
I really felt like writing a sad and serious America on a whim, since I suddenly became patriotic in my own weird way. So yeah.
As always, reviews = love. They keep me writing.
Enjoy!~

America's Suicidal Depression

My Country Tis of Thee.

Rays of pure sunlight shimmered across the untouched blanket of snow that buried the dead saffron grass, attempting to penetrate the layer of frost that shrouded the States. A golden-haired adolescent perched in a low-hanging willow tree, its muscular trunks gnarled and twisted from enduring countless centuries of Nature's abuse. Despondent dodger blue eyes scanned the pristine expanse of land that stretched out farther than the eye could see. Argentine glasses roosted on top of his head, barely touching the characteristic ahoge that pointed skyward defiantly, never to lay flush with the rest of his choppy, dirty blonde hair. His gaze rose to a faraway sign adorning a hill to the east; bolded charcoal words that welcomed citizens of the teenage country to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania starkly contrasted the beige wood that comprised the sign.

Bodies clad in hues of steel and slate blue dappled the verdant grass that covered the ground. His eyes bulged as his heart severed the strings that fastened it inside his chest, plummeting into his stomach. A tense, eerie silence pervaded the field; the only semblances of living sound that punctuated the air were the teenager's pounding pulse and his squishing footsteps as he crossed the expanse of earth, littered with the tragedy and destruction of battle. Had it rained? he remembered thinking as he stepped over the thirtieth body he had counted, lying lifeless against the saturated earth. No, it hadn't rained. The adolescent stood still for a moment, the rubber soles of his umber boots sinking into the malleable soil. His gaze darted down as he lifted his right boot, nausea churning in his stomach as he witnessed viscous, crimson liquid fill his shallow footprint. Is that… blood?

"America?"

The novel voice jolted the proud country as his balance abandoned him long enough to lose his grip on the tree, colliding with the ground only a foot below his perch. He sat upright amidst the broken, frigid snow, blue topaz eyes shifting skyward to meet a violet pair cast from the same mold. He could have sworn that he had stumbled into a dream, that he stared at a shade of himself, until he noticed the long piece of curly hair that jutted away from the other's wavy, chin-length hair, the slightly rounded pair of silvery glasses that stationed themselves on the bridge of his nose, and the fluffy polar bear cub which his arms wrapped around. "Oh… hey, Canada."

A feeble smile twitched the corners of Canada's mouth as he crouched in front of his almost doppelganger, setting his bear cub down beside him. "I'm sorry I frightened you. Others tend to not see me coming."

"What are you doing here?" America questioned, an uncharacteristic emotional edge prevalent in his blunt tone.

"Wouldn't it be obvious, America?" Canada prodded gently, his eloquent voice enveloping his mirrored image. "No one has heard from you since 1860, and it's now 1865. Britain, not to mention a handful of other countries, has been worried sick about you, wondering about your welfare. From what I can tell, you're not doing so great… why haven't you reached out for help? No one can read minds, you know."

America merely shook his head, a weighted sigh escaping him as a fleeting puff cloud appeared in front of his face for a fraction of a second before dissipating. "I don't need any help, Canada. I need to learn to deal with my own problems instead of relying on others. And I think I've found a solution to everything. All of my problems will be long gone soon enough."

Canada's eyes narrowed suspiciously, reading into the abnormal gloom coating America's positive words. "Even though you say that, you still look so depressed. What problems have you faced in these past five years to change you so much, America? You're no longer that flamboyantly cheerful country I once knew…."

Another sigh wracked America's frame as he stood, turning away from his twin of sorts though they shared no blood. "Ever heard of mood swings? Just don't worry about it, Canada. It's not for you to deal with, so there's no point in telling you. I don't want to burden you."

"You're not burdening me if I voluntarily want to know what's been bothering you," Canada remarked, arms twining around his polar bear cub once again as he straightened. "Just tell me, please."

America took a few measured paces away before speaking again, the edge in his voice sharp and malicious. "I said don't worry about it, Canada."

His steps quickened as the sound of snow crunching behind him met his ears; he knew at once that Canada intended to follow him until he spilled his guts. A hand constricted his shoulder, attempting futilely to steel America's movements. "America! Please!"

"Please what?" America shot back icily over his shoulder, shrugging Canada's hand away as the terrain in front of him sloped upward. He'll know once he sees what's over this hill.

"I want to know what's wrong!" Canada stated, desperation threading through his voice.

America's eyes shifted from the ground to glance in front of him: they were over halfway up the hill now. His heart ached; he could vividly picture Canada's broken expression in his mind's eye, always looking like such an overgrown child in dire need of a warm embrace. "I don't want you to know. Leave me alone, Matthew."

The use of his human name halted Canada in his tracks: he knew that America was serious if he resorted to calling his North American counterpart by that name. Inexplicable vehemence boiled like lava in his veins as indignant tears welled in Canada's eyes. "If you truly think you know what's good for you, America, go on then! It's apparent that you don't need me… you don't need anyone, do you?" Words filled with hatred and midnight-tinged anger spewed from Canada, his firm voice choked and scratchy as if all of the turmoil and worry that he had bottled away in the past five years had finally clawed its way out of him. "Your problems are only going to multiply until they crush you, you know that? Then you'll come crawling back to your friends… your acquaintances… anyone that you think will help, but you'll be too late, America! Too late…!"

America stopped at the top of the hill, a hand waving through the air as if dismissing the acrimonious words that tore at his heartstrings. "I'm already too late," he mumbled under his breath, too quiet for Canada to hear.

"I'll always be here to help you, America, but you need to make some effort too…! You know where to find me, but until then… consider this goodbye." Quartzite tears streamed down Canada's cheeks, prickled by the arctic air as he turned away from America, pacing slowly toward the opposite direction.

America's troubled ocean eyes scrutinized the ground below him, reaching the zenith of the tiny hill: no snow had dared to stick to the forsaken ground on which all the grass had died away, leaving the obsidian soil exposed. Though the battle fought here had waged two years ago, the blood from the casualties still drenched the tainted earth. A sword had been plunged into the middle of the former battlefield since the last time America had visited Gettysburg—he figured that the wife of a nameless soldier that had given his life for his country had placed it there, a makeshift memorial to remind passersby of the battle that marked the turning point of the war. "My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing…." America began, his right hand brushing against a holstered pistol attached to his leg.

"…Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrims' pride…." The plaintive song wafted through the still air, forcing Canada to stop his advancement. A tight, unsettling knot formed in his stomach as he began to turn back toward his sometimes friend, wiping his tear-stained face with the back of his sleeve. He's… singing?

America unfastened the pistol and in seconds removed it from its holster. "From ev'ry mountainside…." His voice ascended in pitch as it transformed from a quiet call to an almost shout, his right finger curling around the trigger that seemed to have been crafted especially for him.

The gun rose to the side of his head, the barrel kissing the pliable skin of his right temple. Canada's eyes flashed to the gun as realization hit, his heart leaping into his throat as he broke into a run. "No, America! NO!"

"Let freedom ring!" America's head tilted upward to the cloudless natural ceiling overhead as he called the last lyric of the first verse of his country's song to the heavens, his finger squeezing the acquiescent trigger.

Scarlet blood spurted from the left side of America's head, staining his wheat-hued hair and the ivory blanket of snow beneath him a horrid red. Canada raced to him as his polar bear cub leapt from his arms; he reached America as the solemn country's body crashed against the unyielding snow underfoot, the impact wrenching the pistol from his dominant hand. America's chest shuddered as the blistering fingers of pain waltzed the length of his spine, branching out across all of the nerve connections in his body. One of Canada's arms dove under America's neck, supporting his head as his indigo eyes met the other's narrowed cornflower blue. The other wrapped partially around America's midsection as lukewarm tears dripped onto the front of his jacket. "See, Mattie…? Problem… solved…." America murmured as he descended into a coughing fit, vermilion blood coloring his pallid lips.

"No, you idiot! This wasn't the right way to do it!" Canada's voice morphed into a pained howl, endless sobs wracking his frame as America's eyes fluttered shut, his head suddenly falling limp against Canada's arm.

To be continued.