Hi! So, this story is about suicide. Just know, I'm not promoting it in any way.
There is a tiny bit of Spamano if you squint.
Review please.
Enjoy~
Fifty-Six Scars is Enough
Ever since Romano was a young boy, he was always jealous of his brother. He believed Italy was better than him at everything. Better at drawing. Better at cleaning. Better at being cute. Better at everything. Romano believed Italy was more loved than him, as well. Spain had always liked Italy better. He even wanted to trade Romano for Italy at one point.
Romano wanted to be loved. He wanted to be told that he was cared about. He wanted to be told that he was worth it. But, he would only be told that in his dreams. Dreams that would never come true, because they had been crushed.
Every day, he'd sit in his room, watching Spain and his brother play catch or pick tomatoes together. He was sick of it. When was he going to get the attention?
Never.
As he sat in his room, crying on the floor, he thought, Would they miss me? Would they care? Would they even notice? Of course they wouldn't. They wouldn't miss him. They wouldn't care. They wouldn't even notice.
Through blurry vision from tears, Romano lifted up his shirt sleeves to reveal cuts scattered all over. He ran his fingers over each one, remembering the story that went along with each. One was of a time when Spain had told him that he was worthless compared to his brother. Another of a time when Italy told him he would go nowhere in life.
Each of his scars had a reason. Each scar a reminder of what a horrible, disgusting, worthless person he was. In total, he had fifty-six. Fifty-six scars. Fifty-six reasons. Fifty-six stories.
Romano picked up his blade, ready to add a fifty-seventh, when something caught his eye. In the corner of his room, sat a stool with rope lying on top. He got up and wiped his tears the best he could, shoving the blade back in its spot, under his pillow, and made his way over to the dark corner.
He carefully ran his fingers over the rope, and then gently pushed down on the stool. As an idea came flowing to his mind, the tears started to form again. If they don't care, why don't you just end it.
He walked over to his desk on the opposite side of the room and ripped out a piece of notebook paper. He got out a pen and shakily wrote:
If you're reading this, I suppose you found me. How long did it take you to notice? The scars, the loneliness, the pain, the suffering? The dead me? You're probably staring at my hanging body now, thinking, "Where did I go wrong?" You did nothing wrong. It's not your fault that I'm a failure. Now, ask yourself these questions: Why are you here? Do you really care? Did I matter? If you do care, it's too late. Nothing can be changed. Just know that I love you, because fifty-six scars is enough. I can't handle this any longer.
Romano.
He folded up the note, teardrops slipping onto it, and set it down on the bed. Then, he climbed on the stool to connect the rope to a hook in the ceiling, making a loop at the other end. He took a deep breath and slipped the loop around his neck, tightening it slightly. This was it. It would all be over. Do it.
Then, in a flash, he kicked the stool from underneath him. As he was hanging, suffocating, dying, every moment came back to him. Not the bad memories, the good, happy ones.
One memory was of him, his brother, and Spain in the tomato field, playing hide 'n' seek. He and his brother had to hide, while Spain counted to ten before looking for them. Italy and Romano hid in a tomato bush, all giggly and happy; trying to quiet themselves when they heard Spain's footsteps approaching. Hours had passes since Italy had been caught and Spain had never come to find him; he thought he would be left there, lost, forever. He cried for Spain and sure enough, he came running. Spain had said, I'll never forget about you, Roma. I love you.
Romano suddenly began to think, Was this the right choice? Had I made a mistake?
He began gasping for air and thrashing about, calling, screaming for help. When Spain and Italy heard the yelling, they came running to him. Spain told Italy to hold Romano's leg while he looked for a knife. As soon as he found one, he cut the rope and Romano had come tumbling down onto the floor, still gasping for air.
As Spain was yelling at the dazed Romano, Italy found the note and gave it to Spain to read. Once Spain had read it, he pulled Romano into a big hug and started crying. Spain did care.
That night, Spain and Romano had a long talk all about Romano's feelings. In the end, they both decided, fifty-six scars is enough.
Okay, so once again. DON'T HARM YOURSELF. Review?