p style="text-align: left;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"br /I am alone. br /Unloved, unwanted, utterly unforgettable. No one speaks to me, knows my name. No one cares. br /I'm at a world meeting, and it's chaos as usual. I watch it quietly, unnoticed in the midst. br /"At least no one sat on me today," I murmured. Russia had sat on me on several previous occasions, something I had found scarring at best. br /"Who are you?" The polar bear in my arms, Kuma, asked. I sighed. br /"I'm Canada,"
I said sadly. Distracted as I was by that "conversation", I wasn't able to hide from Cuba as he approached. I slouched in my seat, trying to be invisible. br /"AMERICA!"br /emShit. No such luck./embr /"I'm not America," I said, but was ignored. br /"I think it's time you and me had a 'chat'," he said menacingly,
lifting me up by my shirt collar. br /br /~an hour later~br /br /"Ow," I winced, limping out of the alley I had bee dragged in. Slowly I trudged to the hotel where I had been staying. I walked alone for a while, until I was knocked to the ground by someone. br /"Mon dieu,
I'm sorry, are you okay...?" He apologized and helped me up. It was Papa Francis! Maybe he would recognize me!br /"Honhonhon,
you are a cutie! What is your name emma belle?/em"
he leered at me, and I took a step back, hopes dashed. br /"emBonjour/em Papa, my name is Matthew." I answered. br /"Mattieu! A French name, emparfait,/em" br /"I'm also your son, Canada," I told him, and his eyes widened. br /"Ah, of course! Mattieu, how are you my-" he gushed,
but I could tell he didn't mean it, he didn't remember, so I pushed past him. br /"I've got to go," I said, not looking /emStupid, stupid, stupid. I'm such an idiot for thinking he would remember me. He left me. He doesn't care for me anymore, he got tired of me, so he went away. Just like everyone will./embr /Once I got to the hotel I went into the bathroom to wash my face. Normally I avoided my reflection,
but today I scrutinized it. Dull eyes a faded blue-violet color.
Cracked glasses. Pale, hollow face. br /emno wonder nobody cares. I mean, look at yourself. Who could ever care for someone like you? Who would ever want to stay? Who are you to even exist-/embr /CRASHbr /I looked at my clenched fist, dripping with blood, and then at the mirror, smashed and cracked. Slowly I cleaned my hand, wincing at the pain. br /And yetbr /I felt some release. This sharp throbbing in my hand lessened this dull, ever-present ache in my chest. It was a sick kind of relief that left me breathless. br /When I got back home, I hunted for a razor. That night I took it into the shower with me. br /br /emEngland,
"Who?"/embr /Cut. br /emJapan,
"Who?"/embr /Cut. br /emAmerica, "Who?"/embr /Cut. br /emFrance, "Who?"/embr /Cut. br /br /The water ran red, and I watched it, numb. When I got out, I bandaged the wounds carefully. br /I was disgusted with myself. This was stupid, attention seeking, and sad.
But I couldn't stop. Every morning I told myself I would stop, I would get help, but every evening I headed straight for the shower and the razor to deal with the day's worth of agony. Because that's what my life had become. Various stages of agony. Even hockey didn't get me excited anymore, which worried me. I knew I couldn't do this for forever, but I couldn't find the strength to save myself some pain and end my miserable existence. br /For almost six months I lived like that, I stopped going out other than for work and necessities, I got drunk on the weekends and desperately tried not to cut. But of course, I did so anyways. I stopped going to world meetings. However, it became time for a world meeting in my home,
Canada, and everything changed.../span/p
I said sadly. Distracted as I was by that "conversation", I wasn't able to hide from Cuba as he approached. I slouched in my seat, trying to be invisible. br /"AMERICA!"br /emShit. No such luck./embr /"I'm not America," I said, but was ignored. br /"I think it's time you and me had a 'chat'," he said menacingly,
lifting me up by my shirt collar. br /br /~an hour later~br /br /"Ow," I winced, limping out of the alley I had bee dragged in. Slowly I trudged to the hotel where I had been staying. I walked alone for a while, until I was knocked to the ground by someone. br /"Mon dieu,
I'm sorry, are you okay...?" He apologized and helped me up. It was Papa Francis! Maybe he would recognize me!br /"Honhonhon,
you are a cutie! What is your name emma belle?/em"
he leered at me, and I took a step back, hopes dashed. br /"emBonjour/em Papa, my name is Matthew." I answered. br /"Mattieu! A French name, emparfait,/em" br /"I'm also your son, Canada," I told him, and his eyes widened. br /"Ah, of course! Mattieu, how are you my-" he gushed,
but I could tell he didn't mean it, he didn't remember, so I pushed past him. br /"I've got to go," I said, not looking /emStupid, stupid, stupid. I'm such an idiot for thinking he would remember me. He left me. He doesn't care for me anymore, he got tired of me, so he went away. Just like everyone will./embr /Once I got to the hotel I went into the bathroom to wash my face. Normally I avoided my reflection,
but today I scrutinized it. Dull eyes a faded blue-violet color.
Cracked glasses. Pale, hollow face. br /emno wonder nobody cares. I mean, look at yourself. Who could ever care for someone like you? Who would ever want to stay? Who are you to even exist-/embr /CRASHbr /I looked at my clenched fist, dripping with blood, and then at the mirror, smashed and cracked. Slowly I cleaned my hand, wincing at the pain. br /And yetbr /I felt some release. This sharp throbbing in my hand lessened this dull, ever-present ache in my chest. It was a sick kind of relief that left me breathless. br /When I got back home, I hunted for a razor. That night I took it into the shower with me. br /br /emEngland,
"Who?"/embr /Cut. br /emJapan,
"Who?"/embr /Cut. br /emAmerica, "Who?"/embr /Cut. br /emFrance, "Who?"/embr /Cut. br /br /The water ran red, and I watched it, numb. When I got out, I bandaged the wounds carefully. br /I was disgusted with myself. This was stupid, attention seeking, and sad.
But I couldn't stop. Every morning I told myself I would stop, I would get help, but every evening I headed straight for the shower and the razor to deal with the day's worth of agony. Because that's what my life had become. Various stages of agony. Even hockey didn't get me excited anymore, which worried me. I knew I couldn't do this for forever, but I couldn't find the strength to save myself some pain and end my miserable existence. br /For almost six months I lived like that, I stopped going out other than for work and necessities, I got drunk on the weekends and desperately tried not to cut. But of course, I did so anyways. I stopped going to world meetings. However, it became time for a world meeting in my home,
Canada, and everything changed.../span/p