May be triggering; suicide.
"I bet you're all wondering why I've called you here today."
It was a big room. Wide, vacant, echoing, with just a video camera and a lone nation towards the front. He sat on a chair, legs crossed hands folded across his lap. Very polite, that was for sure. Certainly like to keep up appearances, even if the situation was dark and cruel. A smile drifted across his face.
This was it. This was the moment.
While he was certainly alone, the video camera connected itself to the televisions of nations all across the world. Almost 200 pairs of eyes were on him. Finally. A grande finale, of which that had never been seen before. Not even by the oldest nations. Even if the technology didn't exist back then. This was something new, and also, something frightening. Not for him though. His mind had been made up long before he had entered the room, set up the recording system, before he had even known how he was going to go about this.
His death.
"It's a rather special occasion really. Definitely not one you're going to forget for the next decade or so. I hope you enjoy it."
And they had no idea. No idea that soon his final words were going to be spoken, his final breath was going to cycle through his lungs, soon his blood would stop flowing, his heart would stop beating, he would not speak. Like anyone ever listened to him when he spoke anyways. And they couldn't even apologize! That was the beauty of it. By the time they would figure it out, that he had planned his death as a spectacle to be burned into the minds of every country, it would already be too late. They couldn't show their remorse, they couldn't acknowledge him if he were dead.
To be sure, he had locked the door beforehand.
"Now on with the show, right? Don't turn off your televisions! Actually you can't. I've programmed them to stay right here. You can't escape. At least, you shouldn't try. You mean your curiosity isn't killing you yet? Very well. I don't want to inconvenience anyone, so I'll try to hurry things along." He spoke in a monotone voice. There was not a hint of emotion. He didn't want to give away the surprise, now did he? That would be rude.
There was another smile. It was forced, toothy, malicious, wholly unnatural. Unlike him. Not there was anything to compare it to. He didn't smile much. Rather, no one saw him smile much. He smiled when he was alone. He rather liked being alone. It was nice. Quiet. Relaxing, even. Truthfully, it did get boring sometimes. But it's not like he could change that, could he? And certainly not now. Not that he wanted to. It would be boring if he backed out now.
And he didn't want his final act, his act of cowardice, to be remembered as boring.
He uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. Like he had been taught. Always a gentleman. Deranged smile plastered on his face like a mask. A terrifying mask that struck fear into the nations that were watching.
France and England sat there staring at the television England had set up in living room, shellshocked. "What the bloody hell does he think he's doing, France?" Neither of them had an answer. All they could do now was watch and pray. Pray that he wouldn't do something stupid. Something he would regret. Or worse.
Their eyes were glued to the television set. What would he do next?
He had a gun. Not just any gun, though. It was his favorite. It was a pistol, one he had carried with him starting with the Korean War, throughout Vietnam and even Afghanistan. All for him. His brother. Absolute scum. He had done everything for him. His people died because of the wars he was involved in. Only because that bastard, that arrogant fuck asked him to. Begged him to. Because he dug himself a hole, a hole he was stuck in for good. And asked him to join him. In policing the world. Trying to bring freedom to the world.
What bullshit. All he wanted was their oil, or to shove his power in Russia's face. That oblivious, idiotic, disgusting little shit head. His brother, his own twin, was such a fool. And it's not like he was any better. He was supposed to be a peaceful nation. But it seemed like all he did was fight, and he was sick of it. He was a pawn in everyone's games, only remembered when he was necessary. Used and then tossed aside like a condom. Only good for a moment, until everything was said and done and they slunk back into their own little worlds, not regretting, not even acknowledging that he had been screwed over. A pity no one showed even a little remorse.
But it was time to forget that now. It would all be over soon. No need to remember now. The world was watching.
His smile turned into a frown. There was a knock at the door. He chose to ignore it.
"You're all going to witness something very special. Something you have never seen before, and something you will probably hope to never see again. The death of a nation. Let's let that sink in for a moment, ok? But not for too long, someone's at the door. Better hurry things up, eh?" A chuckle escaped his chapped lips. He was so close.
With his sweaty palms, he picked the pistol up of the floor. It was dirty and old from years of use. Regrettable. He wrapped his finger around the trigger. Just a few more moments. The knocking at the door got more frantic, the frame of the door started to shake. Someone was trying to break it down.
"Sunk in yet? Good. Someone's trying to break down the door, unfortunately, so it looks like I have no more time. Ironic isn't it. Looks like I'm going to live my final moments in the shadow of America. Well... Adieu." He stuck the pistol in his mouth, and aimed upward towards his head. The final moment. He pulled the trigger, his body losing its gentlemanly composure, slumping to the floor. The gunshot echoed in the room, a last and final cry of goodbye. The door gave way, and a flustered America ran into the room.
There was blood and bits of brain everywhere. The wall of the room was covered in it. There was a scream. It echoed as well, reverberating through the walls, reaching the camera, and then reaching the ears of every nation who had watched Canada's demise. America knelt down next to his brother. Memories surfaced for him.
Kennedy.
It was all eerily familiar. The smell of blood, of it pooling along the linoleum floor. Brain matter clinging onto the wall like putty. A scream. He remembered the screams. Not just his own. But this time it was all his fault. It was too late now to go back and fix anything. Nothing could be done. America cradled his brother's limp body in his arms, the blood from the back of his head flowing onto his jacket and hands, staining them. It was no use to attempt any kind of resuscitation.
Canada - Matthew, Mattie, brother - was gone. Forever. For good. Why.
It was not a question, but a statement. Why.
England couldn't take it anymore. Bile rose in his throat, and he gagged. He ran to the bathroom, the contents of his stomach removing themselves by force. His Canada. His sweet baby. Gone. It couldn't be true. It was a lie. It hadn't really happened. Couldn't have.
He walked out into the living room where France was sitting, face in his hands. England sat down next to him. He didn't speak. He didn't dare breathe.
All was quiet.
The funeral procession was short. No one quite knew what to do. This had never happened before. Condolences were offered, words of comfort were accepted. It would have been sweet if it weren't a funeral. America sat there emotionless. Unfeeling. If he felt, he would definitely shatter into a million pieces. How he wished that was true. How he wished that this had never happened.
Too late for remorse now.
Canada had left his land and people to England. It was only right, after all. To end where it began. But eventually everyone left. Without a nation, there was no warmth, no love in the soil. The land was dead without its owner. No one spoke of the incident, except in quiet whispers in dark alleyways, in the pitch black of a bedroom, or in musty empty bars. In places where no one could over hear. At this point, it was certain that no one could forget the day that one of their own decided to end themselves.
It would never be forgotten.
A/N: This was written solely by Nito at like 1 AM. Reviews have a good home here. Critique is appreciated, flames shall be used to set fire to the rain. First time writing something like this, with a different writing style. c: