Germany wishes that he could live forever. Yes, in theory, he could, but what if he was destroyed? What would happen at the apocalypse, when it came?
He wishes that he could live forever, only him, and that the other nations would die. There are so many things he wants gone from the world, so many memories of blood and pain, that cannot die so long as there are nations on earth who remember them.
He wishes for a day when the name of Adolf will no longer be remembered as anything more than a common German name. For the day when he can cry for what he became, for the demise of his boss, and for what they both lost. So many monstrosities happened, and Germany knows now who to blame them on, but a part of him still misses him. It is a misplaced feeling, he wants to believe, but he knows, logically, that it's only natural, for him to hold on to this. After all, Hitler saved him from darkness, from utter destruction.
Germany watches the sun rise, and wishes that he could go someplace, someplace where there was no one there but him, so he could cry, and let each one of his tears carry away a shard of his feelings with it. But he is a nation, and he cannot leave. There is nowhere on Earth that he can go, where he can really be alone. Most of the nations have stopped blaming him for what happened during the War, but their anger doesn't matter. He tears out his hair at night, sometimes, locked in the agony of guilt. He has to smooth his hair back, still, to hide the patches of scalp that show through. These feelings, this guilt and this sorrow, they hurt. He wants them out.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Germany can feel the warmth of the sun, but the rest of him is cold, and sharp, a knife left out at night. Even when the sun rises again, the knife is like ice, ready to slay all that stands before it. Oh, how Germany wished he were still that knife. He went through his night, and then he came out into the day, but still cold, still angry, and he was so, so great.
Germany wants to be great again.
Germany wants everyone to forget what he did, so he start over, and he can do whatever the hell he wants.
Germany wants everyone to go away.
Standing, Germany goes to Poland's house first. His gun is heavy on his hip, and his knife is cool against his palm. He traces it along his arms, tracing lines, fascinated, as the blood begins to pool and trickle down to his palms, where they stain his fingers red.