This story is a long-overdue request from Ireland-EliyOHara. The request came in August of last year... and oh my holy dear, it has almost been a year since then. I feel absolutely dreadful about this. Really and truly. x.x

But I digress. This will be my first multi-chapter fic (restitution for the long wait), and I will say this here and now... I am giving no promises on how often I update this! I will probably be fairly inconsistent, as I am mostly winging it (ending it mostly set, middle is... well... y'know). So if you do not like unreliable updating, you may want to turn around now!

The title may be changed depending on if I come up with a better one.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Couple(s): America/England

Warnings: physical/verbal abuse, self-loathing/self-deprecation, coarse language, heavy subjects

AU. Anyways, I'll shut up now (should've done that earlier...), so enjoy!

I never thought this would happen. I never wanted to be like this.

Alfred greeted loudly into the phone at his ear, "Hey, Artie!"

"How many times have I told you that my name's Arthur..." he sighed, the noise crackling through the phone, "Whatever. How are you?"

"Absolutely fine, as always! A hero can't be anything but!" He laughed, unlocking the chain around his bike and getting on it. He pushed off and steered with one hand on the bars, the other holding his cell. "Havin' fun in London?"

"I suppose. It's nice to see my family again."

It seemed as though Arthur was attempting to be optimistic about it, but Alfred could hear the underlying sullen tone of his voice. It made him briefly think back to the end of their junior year, when Arthur had told him that he was moving back to England. It was something that had really shocked the blond, but seeing as there was nothing he could do about it, he'd parted with his English friend, saying that they could still talk by phone and through video chat. Arthur had agreed, but it was obvious that he hadn't been looking forward to it.

He attempted to lift his friend's spirits, "Hey, if your brothers are buggin' ya, just let me know and I'll fly over to whoop their butts!"

A laugh came through the phone, and Alfred smiled, glad that his attempt had worked. When Arthur spoke again, his voice was a bit lighter, having gone on to a different subject.

"How are your grades? You're not failing any again, are you?"

Alfred grimaced as the topic of grades came up. Academics were something he'd always struggled in, but since he was in elementary school, he'd always had Arthur there to help him through. This year, without him, it was tough... in more ways than one. He gave a nervous chuckle as he meekly replied, "Eeeh... I'm not failing, per say— Just not doin' so hot."

He could almost see Arthur slapping his palm to his forehead at his response. "Just because I'm not there doesn't mean you can slack off!" he berated sternly.

A whine left his throat, "But Artie~!"

"No buts! You want to get into a good university, don't you?"

At the subject of university, Alfred quieted for a second, then laughed, "I'll find some way through. Don't worry!"

"Alfred..." Arthur let out a rather audible sigh, "Well, have a good evening. I have a test tomorrow, so I'm going to sleep early."

"You're such an old man, Artie!" He laughed, and continued before Arthur could respond back, "'Night!"

By the time their conversation had ended and Alfred had pocketed his phone, he was slowing down his bike at the driveway to his house and he hopped off of it, walking it through the side gate and locking it up before going inside the house.

What greeted him inside was anything but pleasant. His father lay sprawled out on the couch in the living room, over half a dozen beer bottles scattered about the space in front of the T.V. He snored loudly, his face red and flushed from the alcohol he'd ingested and his gut bloated. Alfred wrinkled his nose in disgust at the stench, but did nothing except creep up the stairs to his bedroom, where he opened the door as quietly as he could and, once in, shut it just as softly. He threw his backpack to the side and locked the door, leaning against it and sliding down to the floor, one leg to his chest and the other spread out. At least today his father had passed out from the all the beer... it was better than having him awake.

He took his phone out from his pocket and looked solemnly down at the picture he had of him and Arthur on it. It was almost unbearable how much he wanted to talk to Arthur, even though they had just spoken. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. Hearing Arthur's voice was his only salvation in the hell that was his life. His grip on the phone tightened; the blond wished he could spill everything to his English friend, everything that had happened over the past summer since he'd left and everything that he felt. But he couldn't; he wouldn't allow himself to burden his friend with that. No. He had to keep it inside.

Setting down his phone on the carpet beside him, Alfred drew both knees close to his chest and hugged them, shutting his eyes tightly as if it would keep out the rest of the world. Had life always been this hard? Trying to concentrate in school, keeping up as captain of the football team, taking care of the house... the effort he had to put into all of it was exhausting. Sometimes he just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.

How could he call himself a hero? He was no hero at all. All he did was put on a cheerful façade and play the part of the oblivious, happy fool. Always smiling, always laughing, always making jokes. It was a lie. Everything about him was a lie. He was just a pathetic, useless excuse for a person. Even his mother had left him. She'd left and taken Mattie with her, making him stay here with the man who was only related to him by blood; he wasn't his father, and he wasn't his family. He was a damned drunkard that wasted away his life on a couch and in turn made Alfred's life a living hell.

Alfred clenched his teeth and dug his nails into the skin of his arms, creating angry red crescents against his skin, a dull pain radiating from the points they were digging at. A ragged breath escaped through his teeth, and he rested his forehead on his knees. When had he become so weak? In just the short span of a few months he'd been molded into a docile, whimpering figure, a stranger.

Every time he looked into the mirror, the only thing he saw was a familiar stranger. He had the same sandy blond hair with the peculiar gravity-defying cowlick, the same baby blue eyes, the same glasses, the same bomber jacket... but it wasn't him. It couldn't be. He was not the meek, quivering creature that always looked back at him in the bathroom mirror. He was stronger than this... or was he?

Someone strong would have been able to protect his mom and brother from that abusive man. He would have called the police and gotten him locked up for domestic violence. But no; instead, he stayed back while that man beat his mother, hurled insult after insult after her, and left her a broken mess on the floor. Alfred hadn't even been able to console her afterwards. Matthew was always the one that had done that. Him? He just stayed back and watched. What a wretched son and brother he'd turned out to be.

They were the strong ones. Matthew and his mom had left, not even bothering with getting a divorce. One morning, they'd just disappeared without a word, and Alfred hadn't heard from either of them since. It was to be expected, of course. Why would they want to contact someone as worthless as him, someone who let them be abused like that?

When he opened his eyes and let go of the tension in his jaw, another ragged breath escaped his lips, and he could feel his eyes stinging as tears formed. Mucus drained down into his throat as he sniffled. A silent sob was ripped from his throat as his emotions flooded over, the delicate wall keeping them from escaping being quickly overtaken. Alfred's whole body quaked, shaking as he let out choked sobs. Hot tears streamed down his flushed cheeks, leaving a burning trail behind them.

Mucus dribbled from his nose, and he scrunched his brows up and shut his eyes again, feeling himself being seized into a full-on crying session. Tears gathered at his jawline, tickling his skin until they dropped down to his jeans, dampening the material. Pain blossomed in his forehead with the force of his sobs, his pain. It took all of his self-control to keep quiet. It would be the worst humiliation to have that man wake up and find Alfred curled up in a crying mess.

He didn't know how long he'd stayed there, in that same position, tears streaking his cheeks and his shoulders shuddering. When the tears stopped flowing, having cried out all he could, he just let out dry sobs, his throat now sore. He gasped in air and let it out in a trembling breath, attempting to regain control of his body. Slowly, the sobs subsided, and all he was left with were the drying trails of tears on his cheeks and the pain in his forehead. His eyes felt dry, heavy. When he licked his lips, he noticed the odd taste of mucus on his lips, and quickly recoiled his tongue back into his mouth.

Having cried out all he could, emotions flooded back in, all having numerous names to them, all weighing down on him heavily. Regret, shame, self-loathing, depression, anger, fear, disgust, irritation, resentment, humiliation… He felt empty, exhausted, helpless, broken.

Every little bit of him was broken. His mind, his body, everything was shattered. He'd been too delicate to stay whole for long, like one of those fragile china dolls. One little scuff and they were cracked. And then the cracks spread, reaching out their thin tendrils and engulfing it until it inevitably collapsed. Only the façade was still intact, because it wasn't a part of him. It was a mask to hide the pieces behind. Sometimes Alfred felt that it hid his destroyed self too well. What if someone could see through it, see through his smile? Would they see his downward, bottomless descent? Maybe then he'd be able to get help, escape this torment, regain his life back, and glue the pieces back together.

Of course, nothing ever worked out so conveniently. No, he'd perfected his persona too well for it to be broken through. He'd left no cracks in it, no way for others to find a weak point and peer through the hole to see the pathetic figure behind it. Forever, the mask would stay on… but how long was forever? Was it until death? Would it persist through death, erasing any and all vestiges of his actual self to rot behind the mask? So many thoughts pounded against the confines of his head, only increasing the pain that'd risen from his crying.

With his head throbbing, Alfred used what little energy he had to pick himself up off the floor and drag his feet to the adjoining bathroom. He closed the door softly and walked over to the sink counter, resting his hands against it as he brought his head up. When he looked in the mirror, he saw that wrecked person, that familiar stranger that always taunted him. He sneered at his reflection and turned on the water, bending down using both hands to splash water up onto his face, removing the trails of tears marring his skin. He scrubbed at it for a few minutes, making sure to get rid of any and all evidence of his crying session.

Turning off the water, he looked up again to inspect his face, making sure that he looked normal. Aside from the clogged nose and red-tinged eyes, Alfred looked fine. Amazing how easily tears could be washed away... he sighed and left the bathroom, flopping back on his bed. He knew he probably should have been doing his homework, or studying for the math test he had tomorrow, but the blond couldn't work up the energy to go to his desk. Instead, he opted for just lying down, staring up at the white ceiling and thinking of nothing and everything.

Most of all, thoughts of Arthur kept invading his mind, no matter how he tried to push them away. Thinking of his friend gave Alfred nothing but pain. It was painful, knowing that he couldn't see him, seeing how far he'd fallen without the Englishman as a crutch, as a means of support. Arthur had been his pillar to keep him up and stable. It was sad for someone who used to call himself a hero. A hero didn't lean on others. A hero was the one that supported others...

Above everything else, though, what really made thinking of Arthur so severe, so crushing, was looking back on the happy days they'd shared. To think of such times, and then to be forced back into reality, was more painful than any beating. He could see those moments so clearly in his mind, and yet when he reached for them, they faded out of his grasp. It hurt. It was a nightmare he couldn't escape from. Only when Arthur called did Alfred find a fragment of happiness; even then, it was still only a sliver.

He exhaled softly and closed his eyes, trying to lull himself to sleep by counting his breaths.

One.

Two…

Continuing to count, for once all other thoughts were shut out from his mind. He began drifting off, but when he was on the verge of blissful sleep, a loud bang on his door jolted him awake.

"Alfred, get your ass out here!" bellowed an angry voice from beyond the door.

Stifling a groan, he slid from his bed and stood up, heading to unlock the door despite his better judgment. A split second after he'd flipped the lock on the doorknob, the door swung open and slammed against the wall adjacent to it, Alfred narrowly avoiding getting hit with it.

Before him stood the man he refused to call father, beer bottle in hand, eyes bloodshot, face red both from the booze and anger. Before he could lock eyes with the man, Alfred's head whipped to the side as the man's hand came down against his cheek, making it sting with the force behind it. He said nothing, only looked at the man out of the corner of his eye. He would have rather been hit with the door.

Alfred wondered what he was mad about this time. Or did he even need a reason anymore? Sometimes it was "your fault that they left," or "because you're a pathetic excuse for a son," or "you're using up all of my money," and the best one, "you screwed up my life by being born." All of those were reasons used multiple times as excuses for the beatings, the pain, but Alfred supposed that it no longer mattered why. And even if he did have a reason, it didn't matter, because although he knew that none of it was his fault, the constant abuse, both verbal and physical, certainly had a way of convincing him it was.

He was taken from his thoughts when the man began yelling again, his speech slurred by intoxication, "You damned worthless son! The school called today to tell that you're failing three classes! I don't put up with you for you to fail that shit! If you're not going to learn, then drop out and get a job to pay me back all my money!"

Now there's an idea, he thought snidely. A response was at his lips when another blow came down at the side of his head in the form of an empty beer bottle. There was a dull thud! as it made contact with his head, and pain surged through his head, sending a wave of blackness before his eyes for a moment before he gained back his sight. He stumbled to the side, giving the man a dull look, taunting him as if to say: Is that all you got?

In hindsight, it wasn't the best idea to taunt him. Like a switch was flipped, blow after blow rained down on him, bringing him down to his knees, hands instinctively covering his head. Both fist and bottle hit various places along his body; his arms, his back, his neck, his stomach. One such blow to the stomach knocked the wind out of him and forced his hands from his head to keep himself from collapsing. A large cracking sound against his skull made his vision swim again, and he felt sick through the pain.

The man started yelling again, though Alfred didn't pay attention to his words. It was hard to comprehend anything but the pain. It almost surprised him that he hadn't cried out yet, but he knew that it was the only way he kept his tattered pride intact. But he spoke too soon.

There was a shattering sound as the bottle presumably broke, maybe against the wall, he didn't know. Coming shortly after the shattering, pain shot up through Alfred's back like long, vicious nails being hammered up his spine. The broken bottle ripped his T-shirt, its jagged ends scraped and tore through his skin. A scream was ripped from his throat, hot blood seeping up through the lacerated skin and running in streaks down his back. His body broke out in a cold sweat, his heart thrashing profusely against his ribcage as the man continued to sink the bottle's ragged teeth into the skin of his back and arms, some strokes short and quick, some slow and agonizing.

Alfred had no way of telling when, but with blood streaking his bruised and battered body, head pulsing in an excruciating rhythm, and heart heavy, he passed out.

...I feel terrible. I really do. But when I hear the word "depressed", it's a lot heavier than just plain old "sad". Thus, this was created (along with many other stories which were temporarily scrapped). There's a lot of big paragraphs, isn't there?

So, do you want to shower me with rainbows and (soft) candies, or do you want to pelt me with bricks? Both, maybe? Either way, do tell! Constructive criticism and reviews are highly appreciated! No seriously... 'cause if you do like this, they'll urge me to get to writing more of it.

Thank you very much for reading! *gives cookie*