Laying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, Alfred thought about what what he just did. He sat up, crossing his legs and looking at his shoulders, calves, thighs, and arms. They were all wrecked, red spotty, and with blood still somewhat flowing. He hated himself foe this. Why did he like this so much? Why did he continue to do this to himself?
It excited him, not in a sexual way, but in an aesthetic way. He thought it looked beautiful. The red color complimented his skin. The bruises from when he went a little rough. The burn and cut scars that laced almost every inch of his body. Maybe this was just him being fucked up.
Alfred knew though that he didn't really want to stop. He liked this. He didn't do it because he wanted to die, but because he wanted to feel something. Even if it had to be pain.
He got up from the bed. He had next to zero energy, but he needed to get these injuries cleaned. He didn't need them get infected. Not again. His hands were shaking, he didn't know if it was from the adrenaline, or the blood loss, or the malnutrition. All he knew was that he should clean these up and then lay down.
The walk to the bathroom was slow, full of tripping and having to take breaks because his body didn't know what to do with it's self. Upon getting to the bathroom he grabbed a washcloth, q-tips and cotton balls, and rubbing alcohol. He got the wash cloth wet and wiped his wounds gently, trying to make sure that they didn't start bleeding again. He then put rubbing alcohol on the q-tip getting the smaller ones cleaned and then using the cotton balls to get the bigger ones.
He put on some disinfectant and then went back to his room. He changed into a pair of boxers and a soft sweater. He then went back to laying in his bed. He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to over take him.
YOU ARE READING
Hetalia Oneshots Because I'm Very Original
Fanfictionread the title this will mostly have to do with aph America ( I'm not actively continuing this, though I might update when I'm board)
