Infinite Lives- Group
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A/N: Hey there. Question: Would you guys be upset if I decided to do a really dark chappie, a tad of suicide and a smattering of feels? 'Cause if so, I've got a lot. And I really want to do them, but if you guys don't want them I'll do my best to skip.
Oops, I just did. Hate me.
And before anyone says much, yes I know Antartica is a girl. I have no regard for that and actually didn't know until after the chapter was posted. And I didn't care to change it, I mean, I didn't want a pairing, so I kept it as is. Otherwise it seemed like... it was a little too caring and lovey-dovey. Meh.
OH! Yes! Note! For my updating, there's going to be a restriction- only during school days, because that's the only time I have internet access. And (usually) on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. :) (There will be excaptions, but it's always going to have a minimum of two chapters a week. Don't worry! :3
And thank you to my current 21 readers! From the USA, Philippines, Hong Kong, France, Sweden, Hungary and (OhmygodIloveyou) A Canadian. :D Thank wuu! 3
A groupie headcanon, features multiple countries. And prepare to get a heart attack.
Headcanon: "Every nation has tried to kill themselves at least once. Some nations, more often than others. Even if they know it won't work."
:)
Enjoy.
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Laughter bubbled within his chest.
The hard, cold circle of the gun pressed against his head, resting perfectly on his temple.
Just one move of his finger and it'd be over, right?
That's what happened to everyone else who tried it.
So, with a single move, a small stroke, his finger pulled back the trigger.
Pain.
Red.
...
...
..He wasn't dead.
The laughter flew up his throat, choking him, coming out in high-pitched tones of hysteria. Blood dripped down his left sleeve, into his hair and down his neck and into his scarf. His hand shook substantially.
Not dead yet?
Shoot again, of course.
Red.
Bright.
Stun.
...
...Still not dead? Keep shooting.
White.
Light.
Star.
Night.
Please.
Click.
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
The insane alughter tore at his chest, ripping through his throat as he fell to his knees. The gun fell to his side, empty, and slipped from his gloved hands.
He leaned fowards, and the laughter didn't stop. It became more of a scream, and his bloody, holed head slipped into his hands. He shook violently, and fell onto his side.
The only sound for miles was the deranged cackling coming from the bloody man on the hilltop.
Tears.
That's all he could think.
It was all he could see, anyways.
Whimpering to himself, he picked up the bright blue piece of glass that was almost bigger than his forearm. It was sharp and could do its job well.
Sniffing, he shook slightly as he lifted the glass shard, and placed it over his heart. The organ that kept hurting the most, tightening, feeling constantly like it was cold, like a knife was being driven through it.
Maybe this could get rid of the feeling.
Suicide, in most cases, worked. Occasionally it didn't, but that made up less than half of the population. Good odds, right?
For a moment, he thought- he could see him again. He smiled, his grip steadying.
I just have to die, and then I'll see you again.
The shard sliced through like a sword through warm butter.
The smile vanished from his face. He silently screamed as the pain became too much, as his heart twisted and blood began steadily dripping from the gaping hole in his chest. His hands shook, and his vision pounded. The tears returned, and he felt his hands grope for the handle of the shard again.
He ripped it out with another silent scream and a flash of white.
Shuddering, he curled into a ball on his side, whimpering as the pain slowly left as his body rolled into shock. The blood began flowing onto the floor, leaving pools of maroon on the spots where he was.
Eventually, slowly, his fingers went to the shining pools. They traced patterns, making more rivers for the blood to go down. And down it did go, through the new paths he'd traced for it.
After a while he realized he should be dead.
Sitting up with a gasp and a bright flash of white again, he felt for the wound in his chest.
Still there.
Eyes wide, he looked over at the clock.
7:48, it read.
It'd been around 5:30 before he'd stabbed himself.
Whimpering more, crying as the hopelessness set in, he took the shard and put it back over the hole, tilting it this time so it'd cut more.
He actually screamed as he made the next void in his chest.
She took a deep breath.
How she missed happiness.
She could fake it well enough, but of course her brother could always tell if she was hurt. No matter what.
Still, though. He wasn't talking to her recently. What had she done wrong? It felt dark inside her chest, like she was worthless. Maybe that's why he was ignoring her. You never pay attention to the useless things unless they took up space you needed.
And she could take herself, the worthless factor, out of her brother's problems and he'd be happy again. Maybe even give her a smile.
She smiled just at the thought. If she wanted to do that, then...
With a simple swing of her legs and a push from her arms, she was flying.
Off the roof, free at last.
Her skirt fluttered in the wind, and her ribbon did as well.
She smiled as she imagined the smile her brother would send to her in death.
But when her feet hit the ground, she knew something was wrong.
Her legs crumpled, and she felt her forehead hit the ground and then nothing.
When she opened her eyes again, it was to pain. Pain and more pain. She felt tears, and let them come. She wondered.
Was she dead?
But when she finally had the strength to lift her head, it was to blood. Her blood, splattered across the sidewalk, painting it a dark red.
She shuddered at the sight, and looked up at the house. Crying, she felt even more worthless than before. No wonder her brother didn't want her, she couldn't even take herself out.
"B-brother!"
Sobbing, trying to lift herself up, she realized she couldn't move her legs, looked back, and felt more tears as her breath clogged in her throat.
She unplugged it and yelled, "Big Br-rother! Brother!"
No wonder he didn't want her, she thought distantly.
You won't miss what you don't notice.
That goes for everything. Items, food, books, weapons...
People, even.
And so that was how Canada was finally speeding down the highway in his dusty, technically new car.
He had wiped any emotion clean off his face, not wanting anyone to see him while he was thinking like this. He held his hands steady, his eyes even more so.
And on the empty stretch of road, noone would know until morning that he was dead.
If they saw, of course.
So with a well practiced jerk, something he'd done many times in his dreams, he torrented off road and into a tree instantly.
Blinding white noise.
After what seemed like infinity, he reopened his bloody, nearly swollen shut eyes.
And sighed.
Again, he was still alive, even after the impact thatwould have killed a normal human, one that normally would have killed him. Shutting his eyes, he leaned back as far as the seat would go and moved his shattered left leg as far as he could towards the gaping hole that was supposed to have a crumpled door in it.
He winced and tried to move his right leg, but was left with a series of white stars that danced arcoss his vision, tempting his body into passing out. Canada growled and forced himself to stay awake. Now that he was awake and the impulse to die had faded, he knew- he didn't want Cuba to come searching for him like he'd done last time. Canada had passed out and when he woke up, it was to a faceful of Cuban.
So, this time, he waited for a split second before grabbing the exterior of the car wirh his left arm, wincing as his head tried to fly into the clouds. He forced himself to stay lucid.
He was going to need another car. Again.
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A/N: (Includes: Russia [gun], Italy[glass shard], Liechtenstien [heights], Canada[car crash].)
Oh yes I did.
Yes
I
Did.
Note how Canada's the only one who was actually labelled as himself? As in, I used his name while writing. :)
...And ****= person change.
I write for prompts :)
