A/N: this is an angsty England story, which contains depression, self-harm and possibly suicide. If you don't wanna read it, then don't. No-one's gonna force ya.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia

England looked out the window, not focusing on the world meeting, or more, complete and utter chaos, around him. He frankly didn't care about the world anymore. Mostly because the world didn't care about him. And he didn't just mean the world, he meant the countries as well. Or, the personified countries.

They didn't care about him. Everyone left him. He was worthless, useless, pathetic and grumpy. He didn't deserve to live in this world, desperately clinging to anyone around him, only to be pushed away.

This sort of thinking wasn't making England any better. I guess it's what I get for being alive... Sighing, England dragged his dull gaze over the rest of the people at the meeting. Everyone was with someone else, whether they were fighting or talking. Japan and Greece were talking, or more, Japan was trying to persuade to wake up and pay attention to the world around him. Switzerland was fighting with Austria over who could save more money, but Switzerland shut him up when he pulled out a hand-gun and pointed it at Austria, disabling the safety. But that wasn't the point.

Everyone in the room had at least one other person who liked them.

Everyone in the room had at least one friend.

Except England.

His heart hurt now. Probably from the all the depressing emotions and thoughts. He wanted to disappear from the face of the earth – not that anyone would notice. They'd most likely be glad if he disappeared forever. They were probably hoping this every time they saw him.

Feeling even worse, England laid his head on the table, eyes staring blankly at the table top. Why do I have to be nearly immortal? It's horrible. I just want to die. Why is that so hard to ask?

Then he felt a hard poke on the top of his head. Groaning, he looked up and saw America, standing there with an angry look on his face.

"Dude, for the love of God, listen when I'm talking! Are you deaf, old man? You sure act like it. Anyway, you just missed my entire speech, and I ain't repeating it to you. Next time, pay attention." Satisfied with his mini-rant, America turned on his heel and walked away to talk to Canada and Cuba.

England felt tears prick his eyes. But he couldn't cry. Not in front of all these people. They'd tease him. So he blinked the tears away so he could cry later, when he was alone. No-one ever realised this was what he did when he got home. Well, crying and something else that he'd never show or tell anyone about. Not that they would care.

Finally, England heard Germany call the meeting to an end. Thank God for that, I can finally go home. He thought tiredly, standing and walking out. He had a headache, and felt deprived of energy. But that was because he hadn't been eating. Whenever he'd eat something, the bad memories and the sad thoughts would come, and he wouldn't be able to hold his food. So he just gave up on eating. He barely drank anything, either. In fact, the only thing he drank was tea, and that was because it was relaxing and he didn't throw it up. If only he could drown in tea, or drink so much he gets an incurable illness and dies from it. Unfortunately, he couldn't die. He was a country. Countries can't die.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't realise he'd bumped into Germany. Germany shot him a stern glare. "Watch where you're going." He snapped, looming over the Brit. Apologizing quickly, England walked round him and picked up the pace, heading to his place. Luckily, the meeting had been held in his country (why anyone would want to go to his house, he didn't know), so it wasn't too hard to arrive at his nearest house (he had quite a lot in his country).

Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and pulled it shut, not bothering to lock it. Dropping his bag off in his study, England headed towards the kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea. He was exhausted from travelling as there was barely any energy in his body.

As he sat down in an armchair and sipped his scalding hot tea, his mind trailed to the meeting. The only time anyone had talked to him was to have a go at him for something. America and Germany were the last to say anything. France had called him 'black sheep of Europe' again, and various other countries had called him names. But that wasn't even the worst of it. His brothers, Ireland, Scotland and Wales, knew when he had a world meeting, and since he represented the UK, they always wanted to know what had been said in the meeting. But it was never in person – which was a good thing. No, they texted him or rang him, demanding to know what had gone off in the meeting so they felt connected to the world.

England was dreading this, as he hadn't been paying attention to the meeting. His brothers, especially Scotland, would flip at this, and give him a mouthful of verbal abuse. But England was used to his brothers' verbal abuse, and tried to block it out, tried to ignore it, but it sank in. After all, everything everyone said to him was true.

Then he snapped. The urge became too strong, and he put the tea down, only half-full now, and walked upstairs to his bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed, and opened the top drawer on his bedside table. It held a single, razor-sharp knife. His hand hesitated over the weapon. Should he do it? His mind underwent a mini-battle with itself as England tried to decide. Then he made his mind up.

He grabbed the knife, and took it out the drawer.

Rolling up his sleeve, England held the knife to his pale skin. It was already covered with scars, some from wars but most self-inflicted. He thought of all the people who made him feel worthless.

Scotland. Cut. A few drops of blood slipped out the wound. But it wasn't enough. He barely felt that one. The only way to deal with this horrible life was pain or death. And one wasn't an option, so he chose pain.

Ireland. Cut. Wales. Cut. France. Cut. America. Cut. Germany. Cut.

England couldn't think of any more people in that category at that moment, so he moved on to all his former colonies.

America (again). Cut. Canada. Cut. Hong Kong. Cut. New Zealand. Cut. Australia. Cut. Seychelles. Cut. Sealand. Cut. India. Cut. Wy. Cut. He was aware that two of them were micronations, but that didn't mean it didn't upset him when they left him.

England's arm was coated with blood now. He felt the pain, but only smirked at it. But then his smirk faded as he heard footsteps running upstairs. Was it his brothers? Or America? Whoever it was, he couldn't let them see what he was doing. Hastily, he chucked the knife in the drawer and slammed it shut, rolling down his sleeves as well. He was just in time, because someone barged into his room.

It wasn't any of his brothers.

It wasn't America.

…

It was Italy.

Incredulous, England asked, "Italy? What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry for barging in, ve~. I just wanted to apologize for everyone's behaviour today. I know it's not them apologizing but at least-"

"You don't need to apologize for them, Italy. It won't change anything." England sighed. Why was Italy here? Why was he apologizing for everyone? No-one cared about him, so what was Italy doing here?

~Just before~

Italy walked up to England's house, and was surprised to find it unlocked. Confused, he opened the door and stepped inside. It was deadly silent. But then Italy heard a noise. It was quiet, but the silence around the house made it echo. It sounded like skin being sliced. He couldn't explain the sound, but knew it was bad. So he followed the sound, which was repeating itself over and over, and soon came to England's room. While coming up the stairs, the slicing sound stopped and he heard a clatter, as if England didn't want him to see something. Concerned, Italy pushed open the door, or more, flung it open, and spotted England sitting on a bed. He looked shocked, but soon enough sadness filled his eyes and he looked away. Italy came closer and England spoke.

He asked what Italy was doing there. Italy had felt guilty at the way everyone in the meeting room had treated England, and wanted to apologize on behalf of them, since they probably wouldn't do it themselves. So Italy began to explain, but was interrupted by England. What he said surprised Italy. It was as if England was used to it, but still got hurt by it. How long had it been going on for?

Italy came closer and sat next to England on the edge of the bed. He took in England's appearance. He was even paler than usual, his eyes seemingly dull and almost lifeless, as if he had given up on life. He had such a sad expression on his face. But it was worse than simple sadness. It reminded Italy of depression – wait. Did England have depression? The Brit was thin and gaunt. It looked like he hadn't eaten lately. Bags hung under his eyes. How had Italy not noticed any of this lately?

Edging closer, Italy asked, "Have you been eating lately?" When he got no reply, he got more worried. "England? Answer me…please? Arturo?" England tensed up and looked at the Italian at hearing the nickname Italy used for him. Italy used such a soft tone that England almost told him. Almost. Instead, he looked away, facing the wall. This move alone answered Italy's question. He jumped up from the bed. "Oh my god, you haven't! When was the last time you ate something?"

England let out a sigh of defeat. He racked his brain, trying to remember. "Let's see… I think it was about…a month ago or something? I can't remember much. If I was human, I'd be dead by now. But of course, the stupid immortality thing got in the way of that."

Italy's eyes widened (and opened) in shock. He hadn't eaten for a month?! No wonder he looked so pale, and thin. Then his gaze travelled down to England's arms. He was holding them carefully, as if there was something on them. Then he saw the slight bit of blood seeping through the sleeve material. Don't tell me…Italy thought in horror.

In a swift move, he jumped forward and pulled back England's sleeve forcefully, causing him to hiss in pain.

What Italy saw chilled him through to the bone.