A/N: This story could be triggering for some… You have been warned…

"Nobody likes you, but you already knew that right, England?"

"Alfred should have killed you when he had the chance, look at the mess you've made of yourself!"

"Worthless little freak. Nobody wants you here, they want you dead. Can't you even kill yourself properly? Or do you always fuck that up too?"

Arthur's hand was trembling hard, and his breaths coming in gasps but no tears fell. Well, not the salty ones that little girls always denied were on their faces. No, tears of blood that were oh so much harder to hide from prying eyes. Crimson was smeared on his forearm, and bloody finger prints were messily painted on the surrounding tile floor. A razor blade was strewed off to the side, bits of skin hanging off of the tip.

The lights in the room were flickering; half dead from the abuse they'd received. It looked ghoulish- how the blood slid down the man's arm from just one cut. Not even a deep one, it was only a sliver compared to the ones nestled around it.

"Are you scared, Arthur? Is the little British Empire too afraid to go a little deeper? You deserve the pain, don't deny it."

"I wasn't." England spat out, leaning his head back on the edge of the tub. The once porcelain surface was turned into a mockery of a child's finger painting, red streaks running down the sides and into the murky water turned a yellowish-pink. A few more pills found their way down the blonde man's throat, dry and cracked. They were little round ones, with delicate wording of medical gibberish on the face. Arthur didn't stop to check which kind they were as they numbed is already sore body.

The house was cold, not homely as it once had been. The only sound left was the light dropping of blood into water-that in the silence-seemed almost soprano.

"You're too weak to hit the vein? Come on! You know exactly what to do, why not just speed it up? Don't you want to be dead already?"

A chill ran down Arthur's body, and a new stream of blood slowly came out of the cut. The man raised his bony hand and ran it down the length of the cut, brushing away the hardening blood. Slowly, little lines formed again as the wound reopened. The water clung to it greedily, and the water turned from a sickly yellow to a darkening pink. England picked up the razor blade again, posing it just above the new cut. It glittered with dullness caused by repeated use, and he quickly scrubbed away at the blood clinging to it. It would cut deeper that way.

"He told you to your face that you were stupid, an old man who ran out of time. Don't you want to die on your own terms? Not from countries who want your blood? Take it yourself. No one can hurt you then."

A tear finally slid down Arthur's face, pale and clear. His eyes dried quickly, however, as he pressed down on the razor blade and slid it across his arm. The pills weren't doing as they were supposed to do, but it didn't matter- his vision was blurring anyway.

"Look how shallow that is! Come on! AGAIN! DEEPER!"

Without even thinking, Arthur put the blade back and this time pushed it even deeper into the cut… and pulled back.

A hiss worked its way out of his lips, his arm shaking for a second before lying limp in the warm water as his emotions went numb. He didn't do another cut, and let the blade float lightly to the bottom of the tub.

"There, see, it wasn't so hard, was it?"

The voice drifted away as Arthur drifted off into the blankness. He didn't even notice the sound of footsteps stampeding up the stairs. He just heard, barely, as the door flung open and Alfred's face turned horrified.

"ARTHUR!"