Dear America,

I'm not quite sure how I should phrase this.

I guess I can start by saying: I hope you never learn how expensive colonies are. Really.

Have you already had colonies of your own? I'm not quite sure. It never concerned me. I feel really horrible for writing you specifically, considering all the others that I could've written to.

Either way, I looked around recently, and I realized I'm completely alone. There's nothing left for me. I looked around and I thought to myself: Wow. What a bloody burden on society.

And here we are. I really don't know why I'm writing to you; you won't care whether I live or die. I had many other colonies.

But you've lingered in my mind recently, and for far too long. I can't seem to stop thinking of you. You're haunting me. I had to check you were still alive a few times, and you're always alive, and you're always going to be. So how the hell do you manage to haunt me?

I've been exceptionally happy recently, despite the given circumstances. I didn't even need to turn to alcohol! Aren't you proud of me?

Of course you're not. You, you little cheeky bastard— you're so happy all the goddamn time and you can't even legally drink or do drugs in your country, and I'm glad you can't, because god knows what you would be like if you could take after me.

Anyway, this happiness cannot possibly continue. But I'm happy right now, and I woke up this morning and thought, "Hey, wouldn't this be a fantastic day to kill myself?" So here we are.

I've considered doing this for awhile now. I don't want this happiness to leave because I know what it'll bring.

It's your sestercentennial today. You invited me, just as you do every year. I know I promised I would come, but I find I have no time. I'm sorry. I can't see you again before I die, so I'm going to write you this letter instead.

I'm almost relieved I won't see you again. I really don't want to.

I have been through a lot of lows. You won't care, but I must tell you this for you to understand why I couldn't come to your bloody birthday party.

I'm happy. Completely, utterly happy for no reason whatsoever. I don't want to be happy.

This happiness can't possibly be permanent.

Essentially, I want this happiness to last as I get a good head start on killing myself. Things always get better, sure, but things getting better only allow things to get worse. Not only am I unworthy of this happiness I am experiencing, it will leave. Almost guaranteed. Things in the kingdom are going downhill fast, but I won't bore you with much more information. They will get worse, and I won't be able to handle it. It's happened before, but I'll make sure it doesn't happen again.

Anyway, I can't see you again because you are what makes things worse. That's not to say any of this is your fault; but you are a prime example of my fall from paradise. I thought I had it all back then. I loved you so dearly, America.

A long life has proved to me that there truly is nothing out there for me. This happiness is temporary, and life itself will snatch it from me and watch as I fall apart. This happiness won't last, so I wish to get it overwith already.

It took me years- no, decades- of battling with this decision, but in the past week it has become all too easy to decide. And you might not care, but I've no one better to write this to, so you will read the musings of a dead person. Or you might, I guess. I don't really know what you'd do anymore. You're so different now.

I've been waiting centuries for the moment I would get over you, but I feel that flawed reasoning that allowed me to wait has only made this decision that much more welcome.

I know it seems like I hate you. I despise you. I resent you for what you did. But I couldn't ever possibly hate you. You meant too much to me. You mean too much to me.

This isn't your fault, either. I've been putting off this decision for decades; and while originally it was because of you, now I don't even really know what I was waiting for and what changed.

As I mentioned earlier (or maybe I didn't; I don't know and I'm trying to get to the goddamn point, I swear), there are a lot of other countries I could've written to. I wanted to write to you just to make sure I could still say something to you without having to see you. You're my ally, and I fought alongside you. Isn't that enough reason?

I won't bore you with memories. That would be selfish, to take even more of your time.

I love you very much, America, in the most hateful way possible.

Sincerely,

England

This story was basically just a result of me sitting in my room talking to myself for fifty minutes. What I was saying is much better than this, I swear. But this idea just popped into my head, and I was like, "Oh hey! Why not?"