Skipping beats, his heart drums out an irregular rhythm, 'till the end.
It starts in the car. Even if he knows the windows are blacked, they aren't black enough for him. Their piercing gazes fall through, pick at his clothes, his face, his mind and judge him.
Then he feels the over-riding urge to breath, breath in so far his lungs burst, and so far out they shrivelled to nothing. Like the sea going from high tide to low in a matter of minutes, every day all day and he constantly feels on that wave, wishing he'd drown.
Hands become clammy as he wraps them around and around, a washing machine cycle that makes them no cleaner. A tornado that picks up no bricks. A plughole that never drains.
His driver, ever sympathetic to his cause but is probably annoyed by it, parks immediately outside the door.
He should not be here. All the outside world sees is a flash of white hair.
He is a filthy nation from the north, judged and hated by all those who have ever set eyes on him. He is a bother, a mess. He can't believe his beloved volcano caused such problems and now, more than ever, he has to apologise. He just wanted to let his politicians do it, say the words like they are trained to do, then he could stay at home and look after the little puffling he'd found, and immerse himself in the flock.
Instead, he is here, tugging at his collar minutely so no one notices that he is too hot, and sweating and blushing. And oh God, what does he smell like? He probably smells awful, how could anyone bear to sit near him?
He sits, away from anyone, and continues to wring his hands. Slowly, the room fills up, but the seats either side of him are left, more proof they hate him. He wants to take off his jumper and suit jacket, but he mustn't, because surely it is not that hot in here?
Until finally, his name is spoken.
"Iceland, it is your turn." He looks up, wide-eyed and terrified, as they all look on and make their judgments. He must, he must speak, but he feels like he can't. Alas, he slowly stands, wincing as his chair screeches across the wooden floor and trudges, slowly, towards his doom. It is as if a noose is at that microphone, and he can hear them all whispering, watching, giggling. Does he have sweat patches? Is his shirt hanging out? There is no one who understands, so he sends his pleading glare at the floor.
Eventually, he reaches the dias.
He can hear his heart missing beats, surely it isn't natural.
Deafening silence overwhelms the room as they all wait for his words. The quicker he says them, the sooner he can return to his chair and the complaints will stop. But he can't form the words. He feels like breaking down there but they will judge him. He wants to take off his jumper. A bead of sweat makes its way down his face, and his vision goes strange. Flashing static like a television screen, and unseen to him, his eyes go blank, he hyperventilates and wobbles. He can't even begin his apology, the two lines on his scrunched paper, clenched too tightly. 'Iceland would like to issue an apology for all the trouble Eyjafjallajökull has been causing. It's activity appears to be declining.'
"I-I-I..." He stutters, that one syllable echoing around the huge room. He finally sees all the nations gathered there, more than two hundred, feels vertigo and his stutter is cut off.
"Ice!" All the attention turns to Norway, who has stood.
"It is all in your head."
Everyone looks confused apart from Norway and Iceland who looks shell-shocked, mouth quivering as he gazes far past Norway. The tormented sheet in his hands, forgotten, falls a slow decline to the floor.
Iceland can no longer see, vision becoming black as the heat burns his sight and he never registers the floor colliding with him, as he has lost focus.
Here, Iceland suffers from social anxiety disorder/social phobia. Basically, you hate and tend to avoid social situations because you believe that people will judge you. Symptoms can include palpitations (your heart beating irregularly), sweating, blushing, nausea, trembling, stammering and/or rapid speech, and it can cause panic attacks/depression as well.
I hope you enjoyed this, and that it was intelligible/accurate?
This was for the prompt of mental illness, made on the kink meme: they can be found here by removing the spaces and the brackets: hetalia-kink . livejournal [.com] 20026 . html ?thread=73720122#t73720122