Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine.
Cracks
If you looked closely enough you could see all the cracks.
If you looked at all the cracks you could find out what exactly went on in his mind.
He wasn't good enough.
He wasn't much of anything actually.
He was empty.
He was lonely.
He was sad.
He was bitter.
He was uncertain.
He was useless.
He was a jerk.
His brother would always better, everyone would always be better. All he could do was mess up and disappoint. He deserved punishment and suffering. He deserved to have to live the hell of feeling all this negativity and absolutely nothing at the same time. He felt worthless.
He wasn't really human. Humans had emotions and dreams and hopes. He had nothing. When he closed his eyes for the night all he saw was darkness, a vast blank field that would never be filled due to lack of creativity. He lacked everything but a waste of a physical body. He felt trivial.
Nothing. When he wanted to cry there was no tears. When he wished to shout and curse at the world he could find no anger within himself. When he saw something to celebrate he couldn't find the smiles or laughter that everyone else seemed to have endless amounts of. He felt hollow. Nothing inside at all.
He felt alone always. Even with others who loved and cared about him right there, he felt all alone and out of the group. He would watch and notice that where the gap should be to represent him there was nothing. They didn't need him. He needed them. And because of that he felt separated.
His default setting was sorrow. This deep, haunting sorrow that stemmed from feeling sorry for the waste of life he was. He felt sorry for himself for not functioning the way he should. For not being the normal happy person he was supposed to be. He felt sad.
His other constant was bitterness. At god, at others, at himself. He was mad at god for deciding to make him like this. He was mad at others for either not noticing or not caring. And he was mad at himself because even without god or anyone else he should be able to fix himself. He constantly felt angry.
He wasn't sure where to go next in his life. What does one do when they can't turn to god, to others, or dreams and hopes for direction? He didn't know the correct answer and so he restlessly wandered on, always unsure if the future he headed towards was the right one. He felt uneasy constantly.
He felt useless. He was no great intellect. He was not that handsome. He didn't have talents. Hell, he even lacked a decent personality. There were no good traits about him. Not one. So what was the point of him being here right now, alive and breathing? There wasn't one, not really. He felt unnecessary.
He didn't feel he was a jerk. He knew he was one. He lashed out at his brother, his brother's boyfriend, his few friends, and basically anyone who bother to give him the opportunity to open his mouth. It was stupid and pointless but it was his thing. And he knew it made him a jerk. He felt their pain afterwards.
If you looked through the cracks in his mind that is what you would see. And all you had to do was look at the cuts. At the dead look in his eyes. At the way he drifted around no matter where he was, not caring what direction his feet took him.
They were all noticeable so long as you actually looked at him, all screaming for attention and treatment even if he didn't realize it himself.
But most didn't care enough to look, and those who did look pretended they hadn't.
It's not because they're jerks.
It's simply because they don't want to know that somebody they care about is hurt. They don't want to know they have to be fixed. And they certainly don't want to know that a few years down the road when he finally decides that he can't take how he feels anymore-that he wishes it would just end-that they were supposed to have stopped it.
Before.
Now.
When the cracks are still cracks, and not huge missing pieces of a person's life.
Now.
When he isn't found dead and all of the sudden everyone sees everything. Every last sign in every last tiny crack.
From back then.
From now.
From long before now.
A/N: So this is a result of me trying to get in touch with my depression and then twisting my thoughts ever so slightly to fit Romano instead of me.
It... sort of worked?
I think I'd like to try again with hopefully better results. However, I think I'll wait a bit because I not only feel bad for making Romano depressed/suicidal almost every time I write about him but when I dive this deep within all those dark thoughts it gets a little... hard.
Does anyone get what I'm saying due to their own experiences? If so I would be glad to hear about how you deal with them!
P.S.: Please know that there may be a great deal of typos due to me writing this at some ungodly hour when I should be sleeping. Ah sleep... I think I'll go do that now.