The blonde whimpered, sitting on his bed. He was covered in bruises, but all of his open wounds had healed faster than blood could drip from them.
Alfred hadn't dared to tell anyone. He didn't want to. He'd much rather have physical injuries than the same tormenting words. There was no doubt that if he told anyone, they'd ridicule him. Maybe they'd try to help him, but the world would ridicule him, laughing and shouting gleefully.
His Boss came back with a shotgun, and beat him with it mercilessly. Alfred's mind went blank, or maybe it was just racing by too fast for him to notice any specific thoughts.
Blood covered the ground, pooled around the teen. Alfred had fallen to the ground. This was better. Good, even. This was so much better than being told his opinions didn't matter, than having the others follow him around, than hearing people call him a fatass or a dumbass...
Alfred's mind went blank. His thoughts were sharp around the edges, but he couldn't catch them. Instead, they drifted by lazily, offering little comfort from the almost unbearable pain. His vision was dancing, and he laid down on his back, staring at the ceiling as little beams of light danced across it.
Arthur had been worried about him the other day, he remembered. There had been a World Meeting and Alfred had showed up with two bruises on his wrist. He didn't think anyone noticed, but Arthur interrogated him afterwards. Alfred shrugged him off with a wave of his hand and a smile before leaving.
Arthur hadn't asked again. He hadn't checked on Alfred or even talked to him after that. Alfred was convinced he didn't care.
He closed his eyes. Nobody talked to him anymore, actually. Nobody truly cared. The day before, he'd heard all of the other countries talking about him, saying such horrible things about him.
Alfred was beginning to feel faint. He knew it was selfish to leave, to go away, because there would have to be someone else to take his place. Or at least that was what he suspected. No nation had ever died like this before. No nation had ever died while their country was thriving.
Alfred hummed to himself. Blood was rare, and considering how much of the substance there was, this was really, really bad. He'd never been hurt this badly before.
But blood was good. Merciless beatings were better than merciless comments, he reckoned. The blood was sweet compared to all the comments that had been made over the years. At least the blood wouldn't last forever.
He relaxed, and the humming ceased. The blood was still pouring out of his body, but by the time the clock in Alfred's room announced a new hour, it was cold.
If Alfred was still alive, it would've been evident to him that the other nations really didn't care. It was about two weeks before any of the other nations found out that Alfred was dead.
Afterwards, if Alfred saw them, he would have seen how much the other nations truly did care about him. Arthur and Matthew were in shock, and the World Meetings were just a bit more quiet. Nothing was the same. Everybody blamed themselves for his untimely death. After all, the thought plagued them, even before all of them had enough time to think it, they could've done something. They could've asked, and maybe the bubbly, bright teenager would still be alive.
But Alfred wasn't alive to see them anymore. That was something all the nations regretted— that they'd been too busy to talk to him, that they'd said such mean things to and about him, and so on. Roughly two weeks after his death, the world mourned.