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Title: The Worst Part
Genre: Angst
Rating: T
Warning: Suicide Attempt
Summary: Sometimes things were that much worse when there was no escape.

The Worst Part

America had hit an all-time low. Politics were scathing, business was slipping, crops were dying – it felt like The Depression all over again, but this time, America felt it in his heart. It was a bleak feeling, dismal and disgusting. He was tired; tired of falling and trying to stand back up, tired of waking up in the morning only to see the same blank, lonely faces day after day. America couldn’t stand it. He hated it – hated himself for feeling it.

It was a Thursday. The sky had been cloudless and the breeze carried the salty scent of the nearby ocean. England walked next to America, his suit jacket folded across his arms as they went. They had both seen better times, but England had been taking everything in stride, unwilling to bend under the pressure. America was envious of England’s ability to push through his hardships, hated the island nation for being so collected and calm when all America wanted to do was scream.

England sniffed, shrugging his shoulders in a way that professed he was aching but didn’t want to admit it. “It’s a lovely day, wouldn’t you agree, America?”

America didn’t answer, only glared up at the sun through the metal and chords of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was only a cover up – the nice weather. Hiding the fact that everything that he was felt like shambles and trash, politicians gouging the people with ridiculous fights over what wasn’t important, unwilling to look at the mess they were trying to lead. So no, he wouldn’t agree that the weather was nice; not when everything else was shit.

“America…” England’s voice dipped in a curious warning, hoping to elicit some kind of positive response from the younger nation. When he didn’t receive so much as a shrug, he stopped and pulled America off to the side, allowing room for other pedestrians to pass by without qualm. “America what’s wrong?” His face grew stern as America opened his mouth to respond. “And don’t say you’re tired, either. You’ve been using the same excuse for months now. Tell me what’s really going on?”

And it must have been the look in England’s green eyes, the pleading stare and worried crease of his brow. America didn’t know what it was that made the dam inside of him break, spilling the rotten, tar-like feeling throughout his entire chest as he blurted every last problem he’d ever faced; told the island nation about the politicians, the desecration of every sanctity on any institution possible, the starving children, the lack of help – how no one cared that it was finally him that was suffering, and he didn’t see any helicopters with aid raining down upon his head. He found himself telling England about the unhappy feelings, the utter lack of self-worth and about how much he hated himself and the anger he held. Why did this happen? How could something like this happen to him? Wasn’t he stronger than this?

There were tears in his eyes that he refused to shed – not in front of England, not when he already looked so weak and pathetic. “This existence isn’t worth living anymore,” he admitted softly, his throat swelling. For some reason that statement never seemed truer than in that exact moment, staring into England’s worried eyes and feeling disgusting that he’d caused such a pitiable expression.

“That’s not true,” England said, reaching out to touch America’s face, only for the younger nation to jerk away. “America that’s not true and you know it. For someone in your situation, you’re doing swimmingly. Things might not be the best, but… I’m proud that you’ve –”

“Just shut up! Okay, shut up! Didn’t you hear anything I just said? Everything is going to fucking hell! Hell! There’s no fucking point anymore!” America slapped away England’s comforting hand. Of course this would happen, of course he would finally tell someone what was going on inside his head, in public no less, and they would just sit there and pretend to understand – as if he had no idea what he was saying. But he did, and he was fucking tired of it all. “It’s so fucking pointless,” he said again, his back pressing up against the railing of the bridge.

For a moment he wished he was human. He could hear the water churning below the bridge, waiting, calling out to him. If he had been human, he could end it all – right now. No more bickering politicians who didn’t know the constitution from the bible, no more riots over food and stock, no more corruption and seedy foreign industry, no more anything.

Without thinking America climbed onto the railing, seating himself with his back faced to the water. “Too bad I can’t just end it all right here.” His vision was blurred by unshed tears, but he could tell people passing by were beginning to panic and worry; the nervous buzz around him just adding to the feeling that it just needed to be over.

“America don’t you dare speak like that. Listen to me, you know as well as I that –” England cut himself off, grasping America’s ankle as the nation began to sway dangerously. America growled out something, but England wasn’t sure what; a plea, an argument, he didn’t know, is all he knew was that America had tried to kick his foot out of England’s grasp and before anyone knew what was happening, America fell.

America!” England rushed to the railing peering over in a panic as the humans around him began to scream and call the police on their cell phones. His heart beat erratically in his chest and his brain confused rational thought with the desperate urge to save America, even though he knew that there was no need for such a notion. America would be fine, if a little shaken. America would be fine, he told himself over and over as he sprinted down the length of the bridge.

He had to help America.


That night England sat on the couch in America’s apartment. He alternately watched the door and the clock until finally the doorknob turned and clicked before the wood groaned and the door was opened slowly.

America stumbled inside, closing the door with a kick. His head was bandaged and his left arm was in a sling, but he was alright and England let out a sigh of sheer relief. “America…”

The younger nation didn’t say a word, simply crawled onto the couch and rested his head in England’s lap as hot tears welled up into his eyes and spilled over his blotching cheeks. England ran his fingers through the crown of America’s hair, mindful of his bandages. America’s clothes were still damp and he smelled salty from the water with the harsh scent of sterile chemicals used in the hospitals.

America sobbed into England’s hipbone, blubbering about anything and everything. England only pretended to listen, and when America finally calmed down, he simply whispered soothingly, “It’ll be alright, America. I’m here. Everything is going to be fine.”

“I know,” America whispered; his voice scratchy and thin. His eyes closed and his brow furrowed, looking as if he were trying not to remember something painful. “Falling down is the worst part,” he mumbled, and England wasn’t sure if he was talking about just his country. “But in the end you realize it’s gunna be okay… You just hope that you’ll make it that far.”

Date: 2012-08-08 08:27 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sir-pinkleton.livejournal.com
Depressing... That's a terrible way to "die" America! ;;

Date: 2012-08-09 03:59 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] zo-one.livejournal.com
Yeah ;;o;;

Thanks for reading it, though! :o


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December 2012

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