Rusted from the Rain, a hetalia - axis powers fanfic

Rusted From The Rain

I stumble through the reckage, rusted from the rain

There's nothing left to salvage, no one left to blame

Canada limped slowly down the street, gripping his bleeding arm and attempting not to trip over the debris left from demolished buildings. The ground was becoming more muddy every minute as a light rainfall turned for the worse. Every thing was in shambles; what few buildings that still stood in one peice were borded up from the inside and out. Right were the nation's favorite Tim Horton's resteraunt once stood, was a mass of broken bricks and rotting wood. Why had it all come to this?

Among the broken mirrors, I don't look the same

I'm rusted from the rain

He slumped against the tiny bit of wall that remained standing of the coffee-shop and sank down to the ground, staring aimlessly into space as rain soaked his blood-stained hoody. His dead gaze fell to a large puddle beside him; shock and dread threatening to choke the last of his life out of him as violet eyes stared at the reflection. Canada, once a polite and healthy country with lovely, and slightly wavy, blonde hair, caring deep-violet eyes, and a strangly calm beauty to his look in general, was now a pale white with black, puffy bags under his hallow eyes, cuts and scars littering his once perfect skin, and knotted mass of hair. Dead. He looked so very dead.

Disect me until my blood runs, down into the drains

My bitter heart is pumping oil into my vains

I'm nothing but a tin-man, don't feel any pain

Numb. The young ex-colony felt numb to the pain and cold that once beat at his tired body. He ripped his eyes away from the image of what he'd become to watch the crimson blood ooze from his upper-arm; that was his people, each one of them painfully dieing with every drop that leaked from his slit veins. It was no doubt that his arm would become completely useless pretty soon as the substance continued to stream down his cold arm. It hurt at first, like a fresh paper cut between your fingers, but now it was just a tingling pins-and-needles sensation.

I don't feel any pain

I'm rusted from the rain

Canada probably would have given up right then and there if it wasn't for one thing; his family. America, that son of a bitch, had big role in the war, but he never ment any harm to his come to quiet little brother or both their people; and England had only tried to help the side that he felt had the right intentions for peace, and suffered the ultimate cost for his actions; and Papa France, well, the whole delema had near-destroyed the poor man. Canada had to live, for his now suicidal brother, his dieing Papa, and his Father's only goal; he had to cling on to that tiny thread of hope that they could all be happy when this was over. That tiny thread that was now being pounded on by cold rain.

C'mon crush me like a flower, rusted from the rain

C'mon stip me of my power, beat me with your chains

And if I'm the King of Cowards, you're the Queen of Pain

Though his arm was still bleeding, the large country could no longer feel it; he tried lifting it. Nothing. Huh. He silently wondered to himself if this was what it felt like to bleed to death: slowly going numb untill you're to tired to keep your eyes open...

I'm rusted from the rain

You hung me like a picture, now I'm just a frame

I used to be your lapdog, now I'm just a stray

Shackled in the graveyard, left it to decay

He let his head rest against the wall, good and bad memories filling his mind; Sunday breakfast with France and England during his colony days, then when they split up and he almost never got to see his Papa, the way he and America had always staid in contact and helped eachother, then their angry battle in 1812... so many memories, emotions, and thoughts stormed in his mind as he battled the desire to give in to unconciousness.

Left it to decay

I'm rusted from the rain

Then there was a memory of when the four of them went swimming at a lake: England had spent a good hour scolding France about his swim-bottems which looked more like patterned underwear, while America complained about how cold Canadian lakes were... Canada softly shook his head. He couldn't think about the cold, since it would only remind him of the icey feeling nipping at his toes and fingers. At least he could feel them; it'd be a big problem if they went numb, too.

C'mon crush me like a flower, rusted from the rain

C'mon stip me of my power, beat me with your chains

And if I'm the King of Cowards, you're the Queen of Pain

Soon, the memory of the lake slipped his mind and he was unable to recall it again. Perhaps there was another memory? No, those were gone too, and the tips of his fingers were getting harder and harder to move. Maybe this was all just a bad dream and Kumamajika or what ever his name was would wake him up for food. He waited, but no polar bear cub pawed at his face until he woke from this nightmare. It was real.

I'm rusted from the rain

That's right. The bear had drowned in the sea when he swam out to far and couldn't make it back to the land. Stupid global warming, killing Kumamako. He swore to have a statue made and placed in the heart of one of his Territories once the quality of life was good again; but it was starting to look like that would never happen.

C'mon crush me like a flower, rusted from the rain

C'mon stip me of my power, beat me with your chains

And if I'm the King of Cowards, you're the Queen of Pain

I'm rusted from the rain

There it was; his feet and only good hand felt as though they were no longer there. Canada slowly closed his eyes, taking comfort in the darkness rather than the sight of what had happend to his land. He was starting to get dizzy, probably from the blood-loss, but it didn't help that he was also tired as Hell from his efforts to stay alive. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to take just a tiny nap? France was probably dead by now any way, so it couldn't hurt to relax for a bit, could it? No! That was stupid! Canada felt guilty for so easily thinking his Papa was dead, but the feeling was soon rinsed away when he realized he could no longer feel his limbs at all.

C'mon crush me like a flower, rusted from the rain

C'mon stip me of my power, beat me with your chains

And if I'm the King of Cowards, you're the Queen of Pain

I'm rusted from the rain

Oh, the sun will shine again

The nation's mind fought wildly against his body's slow death, but it was all to obvious that the fight would be lost; he was to far gone. So much blood had spilled from his wounds that is was a miracle he had even made it that far. And it didn't help at all that deep in his heart, France and America were no longer among the living. There was nothing left to survive for, nothing to keep fighting death, no reson to...

I'm rusted from the rain

The sun will shine again

I'm rusted from the rain

Canada, 1867-2051, a nation who fought to the bitter end.

That's what they would have put on his headstone... if they had remembered his name.

Bwahahaha! See, I think we Canadians are probably going to die in WW3, since the Germans probably want to get even and Russia'll think we're America. Don't hurt me, that was a joke. I actually just wanted to write about Matt dying... again. The song is Rusted from the Rain by Billy Talent, who just so happens to be Canadian as well! It's a small world.

And to every one ready to beat my head in with hockey sticks and curling stones for not updating Count the Scars, I'm sorry; I can't find the modivation to continue it any more, but I SWEAR to write a new chapter if I ever do find the urge! I promise! I'm just made of fail and suck worse than America trying to diet.