"He said sharper the knife, cleaner the cut. Cleaner the cut...Lesser the pain." The blonde Englishmen said softly as he looked at his reflection in a kitchen knife. He could hear the common pattering of the rain as it hit the walk just outside the window as the grey gloom seeped in. He glanced again into the silver metal looking at his battered and bandaged face in the slim blade. His green eyes looked dull and solemn; the more he focused on them the more he saw of him in his eyes. He was sick of him, he was sick of the world, sick of his brothers, a term he put loosely. The blonde gripped the hilt and raised the sharp implement that would be his means of suicide just above his left wrist. His hand trembled as the knife seemed to float above his pale patch of clear skin, like a humming bird deciding to land.
"GOD DAMMIT MAN!" He exclaimed as he touched the cool blade to his wrist. As soon as it touched the kitchen door flew open.
"SUP ENGLAND!" America exclaimed. England jumped and nicked his wrist with the knife as he dropped it. It clattered to floor and he immediately drew his attention to the blue eyed blonde standing there in his kitchen.
"Well, oh, hi America." England managed to squeak out as he gripped his wrist with his other hand behind his back for America not to see. The blue eyed blonde scrutinized the Englishman noticing his battered look and bandage wrapped head.
"At least he can move this time." The American thought to himself. America looked over England another moment and then the surrounding kitchen area. The kitchen was almost a complete wreck. Half the cabinets were open and pan lids were spread about. There was a puddle in the centre of the kitchen with shards of broken glass mixed in from where someone smashed a flower glass. It all looked untidy and purposely destroyed.
"He was here wasn't he?" America asked being upmost serious.
"Who was here?" England asked already knowing the answer to his question; He hated talking on this touchy subject with America.
"You and I know damn well who, Scotland." England looked at the floor averting America's gaze.
"Dude! How many times do I tell you? When the red haired bastard comes around you can call me up and I'll come save you!"
"America please-"
"No England, I'm the Hero! People who need help call the Hero. He or she always comes to the rescue and makes everything better! It's my job." He smiled. England tried to remain having a semi poker face. America always seemed to show up at the worst of times, mainly after Scotland has come through. England took a beating from his brother, sometimes to the extent of needing crutches and he never quite fought back. After a while he figured that Scotland only got his satisfaction from reaction, so he refused to give it to him. In some cases England thought he deserved every punch the Scotsman threw at him; Scotland had a way of twisting his brothers words that made England invert on himself, blubbering on how it really was his entire fault. That evil smirk with the cigarette at the corner was almost an acid image for the Englishman. That's why he decided to commit suicide; the pressure, regret, and pain were just too much to bear. He wanted it all to be over and done with.
Finally the pent up emotion he tried to hide from America spilled over.
"Oh why! Just why!" England fell to the ground weeping. "It was not supposed to happen this way!" He brought his hands in front of his face looking at the small cut in his wrist through bleary eyes ignoring his other previously wrapped arm. America went his friend's side.
"D-d-dude it's not your fault!"
"No it is! It's always England's fault! Always England's fault! That's what they say!" England continued to cry.
"Not everything is your fault, where do you get these crazy notions?" America put his hand on England's back trying to calm him down.
"I'm surprised ye donnea feel the same way." A voice spoke out. England looked up to the person the voice belonged to and immediately scooted as fast as he could up against the cupboard leaving America crouching there puzzled for a moment. England stared upwards towards the man standing there and trembled out of pure fear. America turned, just to be looking up a tall red haired man with piercing green eyes. The man took a drag off his cigarette and glared down at the American.
"Scotland." America cursed under his breath. He stood up to glare at the Scotsman who in returned just wore a bored expression.
"Well, He left yah. Left a wee bairne all by himself tae take care then comes back and almost kills him. Why donnea ye feel the same way?" Scotland reinstated.
"But he didn't! He came back for me like he said he would!" America stood up on his tip toes so he was eye to eye with the red haired man. Scotland did not look intimidated in the least bit and said,
"Aye, he did that much at least."
America scoffed, "What are you implying?"
"Did he, or did he not try tae kill ye though?" America took a small step back and looked at the ground.
"Well yeah, but-"
"Enough said. I only came back tae fetch a pack of cigs I left." Scotland held up a small green and white box.
"Fair thee well." He said and walked out the kitchen, a moment later a large slam came from the front door signifying his departure.
A/N: SOO this I started writing a couple weeks ago expressing some dark energy I seemed to have, IDK from where though which scares me a bit…But it make good story! AND I tried my best to write Scotland's Accent and I may have other Kirkland brothers in this, though I have no clue how to write an Irish Accent o3o But we shal see where all this goes, please follow and review.