Author's Notes: Hey! So here's a one shot that my cousin dared me to do, and I believe I did with flying colors ^U^ Enjoy and please review!
I sat on the hard metal of my "country" and stared up at the sky. What was I doing with myself? There was nothing to do here but think. And thinking was my nightmare.
Over the years, there's been one thought that's plagued me: England, whom I looked up to the most, didn't think I was a country. It's not that he didn't SEE me, per sé, he just didn't understand (or want to, I guess) that I was in fact a country. In a sense, that was more degrading than not being seen. It was plainly obvious that I was a nation; my very existence proved that. So why couldn't he see? Why was he so stupid and blind? Sometimes he just annoyed me to no end. That proud look in his eyes, the dignified way he spoke, like he was better than us all... I hated it. I wished he wasn't there.
No one cared about him anyway.
"This is horrible!" I close my eyes and tried to force the thought out. "Go away, go away..." I mumbled. But what was wrong with hatred? After all, his ignorance justified it pretty well. "But that's so mean; I have to be happy!" I said aloud to no one. The hateful thoughts wouldn't go away, and I was tempted. I'm not doing anything bad, I'm just thinking.
I let it take over.
As soon as I stopped pushing the anger and hate down, my mind seemed to be flooded with it. Why did England have to be such a pain? I looked up to him, respected him even, once upon a time, and what kind of treatment do I get? A pat on the head and a sharp, "Go away, Sealand, I don't care." That was cruel and unfair! I tried so hard to get people to recognize me, but they just say I'm silly child with no where to go. England is better, England is more successful, England has more money, blah blah blah.
But he was prideful, and everyone knows the saying: "The pride comes before the fall." I stood up quickly and walked toward the place I slept, though I couldn't call it a bedroom exactly. There was one drawer in particular that I needed to check.
I was going to be his fall.
It was midnight, of course. The perfect time for these things. I got into his house easily, considering how small I was. There in the cold, empty hallway, I crouched before his bedroom door. There was no one about, and no one WOULD be about for 6 or so hours. Perfect.
I stood slowly and leaned against the wall. The semi-automatic danced in circles in my hands, my fingers twirling and twirling it with a smile. This… was justice. Gripping the gun in my right hand, I quietly opened the door.
There was a large four-poster bed, a chair by a lamp, a dresser, and a bay window with a large enough sill to sit in. It was dark except for the moon shining in. And there he was.
England.
Great Britain,
The United Kingdom.
For once he had a nice look on his face, not so condescending. As he lay, I walked over as silently as possible and stood over his body. I was surprised that I was tall enough to see him over the side at all. But whose fault was it that I couldn't thrive and grow as a country? His of course, always his fault.
As he lay there, I noticed all the tiny things: his chest moving up and down, the soft sound of his breathing, how his thick eyebrows were relaxed for once. Peaceful. A strange thing for him. At least it would be somewhat painless. I grinned and cocked the pistol, pointing it at his heart. This was the only way; it was JUSTICE.
He made noise and turned his head, his brows furrowed like he was confused or scared. Then I SAW him:
England.
Great Britain.
The United Kingdom.
The one I looked up to. A simple man, who didn't believe in complicated or sugar-coated things. The man who stood uniquely alone from the rest of Europe. The one who never relied on anyone else or told people about his problems, the one whose green eyes had some much to show and looked so old, while he looked young. The man who was defenseless before me, in point-blank range of my trembling gun-point with the safety off. It would be so easy…
But I couldn't do it.
My finger wouldn't move.
I choked back a sob. Of all the times to break down… The hate was wearing off, I had to shoot NOW. But I couldn't, I just couldn't. Why couldn't my hands perform the act, why was it so hard? Maybe they weren't made for this. Maybe they were too pure to commit such homicide. Or maybe I was weak.
Either way, I lowered the gun and let it hang loosely from my fingers. I covered my mouth with my other hand, trying to muffle the sound. I needed to leave, but my feet were rooted in this spot, not wanting to leave his side.
How could I be so cruel, so dark and cold, to try and MURDER someone? I'm Sealand, I'm supposed to be happy and nice. I was ashamed and guilty, overwhelmingly so. The tears fell like rain through my fingers and my shirt, each one reminding me of the thing I would have done. I needed to leave before he woke up… He didn't need to hear or see me like this. England's eyes fluttered and he moved, so I crouched down and held my head hoping he wouldn't see me and go back to sleep.
But instead, the gun slipped and fell the few feet to the carpeted floor with a loud enough thud to make him look down at me. I met his gaze with fear in my heart.
I could tell he was about to yell at me and ask what the hell I was doing here, but he must have changed his mind because he opened his mouth and then closed it with a confused expression. I wasn't going to cry, I wasn't going to, I wasn't…
"Sealand, what's going on? What's wrong?" He exclaimed and got out of bed. Noticing the gun on the floor, he picked it up. "Tell me what's going on!"
There was no way I could meet his eyes. My head against the bed frame, I choked out, "I'm sorry, so sorry…"
"F-for what, lad?" England tried to be gentler in his tone and he knelt down and put a hand on my shoulder.
I shoved it off and whipped around to face him. "I almost KILLED you, THAT'S what! My finger wouldn't move, you were defenseless… I COULD have! But why, why, why…?" The rest was unintelligible sobbing. When Britain pulled my into his lap I didn't object. In fact, it made me cry harder that he would want to comfort the pathetic boy that I was. What was I crying for?
All the while, he rubbed my back and whispered, "Shh, it's alright, it's alright…" But how did he know? I quieted down and spoke my thoughts slowly,
"The bullet that w-would've killed you… I know why it didn't fire. The bullet was meant… for someone else… like me…"
"Don't say that, Sealand! You know that's not true!" He almost shouted indignantly. "If anything, I understand why you would want to kill me at all. I never acknowledged you as a nation, but I guess I never told you my reasons. I… don't… want America to happen again. He was your age when he loved with me and called me Big Brother, but not much later it seemed he fought me and abandoned me. I didn't… DON'T… want that to happen." It was obvious that all this was very hard for him to say because when I looked up, I saw a mixture of emotions on his face: embarrassment, guilt, sadness, and pain. I felt sympathetic and ashamed. Wrapping my arms around his waist I whispered,
"I'm sorry. I won't leave, as long as you promise to see me for what I am."
After a moment's hesitation, England replied, "I will."
I stayed where I was, and the older nation began to him a lullaby I didn't know. It was nice and it soothed me, and soon my eyes felt heavy. I drifted off the sleep, the gun forgotten on the floor beside us.