This is my first Hetalia fic, and I have had severe writer's block for a long time now, so I'm sorry if it's a bit rusty. This is also my first attempt at a multiple chapter fic. So without further delay, I hope you enjoy!

I remember I asked my brother why he didn't like taking his medication once. His reply was surprisingly simple, yet intriguing:

"The world seems boring without it."

He described it like a fish bowl. Without his medication the world was vibrant and he was outside of the bowl, looking in. However, with his medication he felt as if he was the goldfish swimming in the same bowl with nothing new, and dull colors surrounding him.

I knew that I would never be able to experience this, so I kind of just accepted it and went about my normal fishbowl life.

I'm still curious about what life would be like outside the fishbowl, and I feel intrigued because I am one of the few people in my family who will never be able to know. To be honest, that might just be a good thing.

When I was young, I was viewed as a prodigy. I got excellent grades, was great at art, and extremely personable. Granted, I did not always seem that smart because I was a bit of an airhead, and enjoyed laughing and smiling an unhealthy amount, but I still keep my grades well above average.

My brother, on the other hand, was a bit different. He was smart, but didn't bother with school. He had talent, but would much rather avoid it than embrace it. He was quite personable too. But it was only in short spurts, and then he would revert into a very loud, judgemental, insecure mess.

It was because of this that teachers didn't like him. He would talk back at them and try to prove them wrong. He would get in trouble constantly, whether it be because of his mouth, or simply because of his dislike for school.

So, people usually find it a little odd when I say that I look up to him. However, it isn't really because of all of these things, it's a bit broader than that. It's because he doesn't conform. Honestly, I don't think he ever will, it's not his style. Plus, he is a bit too much of a smartass for that. He will speak his mind and tell you what he thinks, be it good or bad. He also adores being the center of attention, so as we grew up, I slid back further into the shadows and let him have the spotlight.

I became more soft spoken, I kept my grades up and continued drawing, but I never really bothered to make myself known, I was fine being a shadow, fine being invisible.

It started off gradually, I would let him answer a question instead of me, let him choose where we would eat, you know, the small things. However, that all changed quite suddenly in fifth grade, when our parents got divorced.

He would scream and kick spewing how life was unfair, and trying to claim the spotlight which, inevitably, dragged out the process of their divorce. We had to go see a counselor too. He would sit there and complain about anything and everything, while I would sit there, doodling on a whiteboard, "content" with saying nothing.

I probably could have vented too, except that I hated being alone in the room with her. It wasn't anything against her, I just felt awkward in the spotlight. I didn't want her to worry about me. I could deal with myself, my brother was obviously in more dire need of help, that should've been obvious with all of his pleas, so he should get help first. So, I sat, in silence, every Friday, waiting for the hour to end.

As silent as I was though, she somehow knew. I don't know if she saw it in my eyes, or what, but she could tell that I was not that strong. That even though I tried to hold myself up, that I was crumbling inside. She told my mom, and she said she knew something was off. She told my dad, and he blamed it on my mom.

He always did.

Everything was her fault. From Alfred being a bad kid, to her filing for a divorce (but if anyone asked, he was divorcing her), even his own personal obsession with tobacco and alcohol. All her fault. After she left the house for good, he lost all of his prior inhibitions.

He would stumble around the house, breath reeking of alcohol, carrying and snapping a thick, black leather belt with a large, golden buckle that had a horse on it. He tried to look for reasons to make us drop our pants and let him beat us with that belt too. It could be something as small as forgetting to do your chores, or not listening to him. Sometimes, he would make up reasons too. All I can say is that you learn to build up a high pain tolerance, fast. Clench your teeth and look straight ahead, show no emotion, the less emotion, the faster he gets bored, the less marks on your butt.

This worked well. He got tired of my ways, but Alfred didn't learn.

With every crack of the belt his cries of protest would get louder. With every sound of leather against skin, you would hear a yelp and then more anger. It was like trench-warfare, no one ever seemed to move forward.

I listened to this repetitive cycle almost every day we were there. Waiting until eight o'clock at night. The only time I could take solace in. Because I could call my mother. We were only allowed to talk for half an hour and I would have to share the phone with my brother, but hearing her in comparison to our father was like the light in a dark tunnel. Alfred didn't care to talk to her that long either, always claiming that we would see her in a few days anyways. I didn't care, that gave me more time to talk to her anyways.

I thought I would finally be able to get used to living like this. That is, until the "incident" happened.

It was a warm June night and I was on the phone with my mother. We were talking about something we had wanted to do that weekend, which was my dad's weekend, so she asked if I could hand the phone to him, she said that I could stay in the room with him if I wanted. That way I would be able to get to know the answer immediately and still get to talk to her afterwards. Of course I agreed to this.

How could it go wrong?

So I handed him the phone and he told me to go away.

"Mom said I could stay in the room when you two were talking."

"I don't care, I'm saying go away."

"I don't want you to fight, why can't I stay?"

"Go."

"Why?"

Little did I know, that one word was too much. I saw an emotion in his eyes that made my body say one thing:

Run.

So I did. I ran to the closest room, which happened to be a closet, in hopes that I could barricade myself in it, or something. But he was faster. Just as I had crossed the threshold of the closet I felt an iron grip on my right arm

Then a yank backwards and up.

Then a grip on my left arm.

And suddenly I was being dragged out of the closet.

My mind was racing and I was numb to everything around me. Before I knew it I was in my room, door slammed in my face and obscenities being yelled through the door. So I did the only thing I could think of in my incapacitated state, and went to sleep.

Regarding the next day I can only really remember one thing: unbearable pain.

My left shoulder was aching and burning and I would hear a popping noise coming from it regularly, my left wrist was sore too with a throbbing pain emitting from its lateral side.

That wasn't the bad arm though.

I could barely move my right arm, the shoulder with its achy mechanic movements, and my wrist, oh my wrist. I couldn't ball my hands into a fist without collapsing in tears. A simple turn of my wrist would result in a series of pops and grinding noises that couldn't be healthy.

I was thankful that I was going to my mom's house that day. It meant that I only had to deal with this pain for about seven hours, instead of three days. She was sure to give me pain medication for this hellish pain.

And she did. She also got quite mad that I didn't have her pull me out of school.

Soon after giving me the medication, she took me to the doctors.

Both of my shoulders and my left wrist were sprained, while the right wrist was broken in multiple places and the bones all jumbled up inside.

So the doctor, being the great person he was, told me to wrap it with an ACE bandage and ice it.

So I did. Everyday, multiple times a day, but it never healed. And my father refused to believe that his abuse of my arms caused it. He went so far as to blame it on me. Alfred didn't back me that much either. He was afraid to stand against our father, so I stood alone. It's okay though, I figured that would happen.

On the upside, school was almost out for the year, and when I finally got back, I'd finally be in middle school, which was bound to be a hundred times better than this past year had been.