Good-bye.
Alfred's eyes came to focus again, the darkness of his pupils retracting back, disappearing behind the power of the electric irises. A blue gaze flitted across the room, scattering confused looks at the scene unfurling around him. The room he had been in for the last four hours had suddenly changed. It was a normal conference room. The table were still in their usual place. Papers from important documents were laying abandoned on the glossy mahogany. The night-blue ink from a pen was smudging the words of one papers into an illegible mess, while some of it dripped from the edge of the table - into another pool of an almost purple colour. But the room wasn't the one he had entered this morning. It couldn't be. But he knew it was, because a voice in his head said so.
He had a faint headache, the last hour seeming blurry in his mind - but why? What had happened? Why couldn't he remember? Staring at the floor, he couldn't connect two very simple dots. He couldn't grasp the idea that he, in fact, had done that. That being whatever you could call what he now saw.
It wasn't my fault.
He stumbled into one of the chairs, crashing gracelessly into it. His eyes scanned the room, looking for something - anything - that could prove that his suspicions weren't true. He heard a clatter as something heavy collided with the floor, the hollow echo filled the deadened air before fleeing, dissipating away. He felt suddenly lighter for a moment, but he didn't know why. He didn't bother look for the source of the sound- it was only a delicate thump to his ears, a sound not worthy of recognition, not preoccupying in the state of things.
It was theirs.
He lifted his hand to his face, but he noticed it trembling, shaking unnaturally. He stood back up, spinning hurriedly to take in the entirety of the room, his polished black shoes staining with the crimson that pooled on the floor. The electric eyes flickered hazily with fright and horror, the truth slowly digging its way into Alfred's denying mind.
They were long dead before today.
Alfred coughed jerkily, and shortly he had to take hold of something, a table, a chair, the wall – his hand found the edge of the table, and when he finished coughing, his mind was taken by a million questions. What was happening? Why did he suddenly feel so ill?
Oh, but Alfred, you know why.
He moved his eyes away from the crimsoned floor, away from the death. He backed against the wall, searching for the door. Franticness began to cloud his mind, his thoughts muddling together. He needed air, he needed to get away –
You know what to do.
Alfred fell to the floor, not caring about the sticky red liquid seeping into the trousers of his suits, searching the bloodied floor almost desperately. He soon found the gun, its black metal tinted with the hearts of nations.
You saw what you can do – you can't let it happen again.
Alfred lifted the gun, detached the magazine -
One.
It won't hurt.
His hand shook incredibly.
You betrayed them.
He lifted the gun to his temple.
You killed each and every one of them.
He took a deep breath.
You don't deserve to live.
His hand steadied.
Do it.
A shot.
The United States of America collapsed lifelessly on the floor, the world's last power weakly drowning in the blood it spilt. The world's last power, who had killed the other ones. The last power, who had the world at his feet, and tore it apart.
A/N: Hello, dearest reader. This is my second Hetalia fic, and it is slightly more... morbid. This is what happens when I write at midnight amidst the darkness of my own room. And so, of course, if you happened to like this, I invite you to rate, review.
Good-bye!