All I Wanted To Do Was Sail

{Me: Hiya guys!

I've been stumped on what to do in my ongoing fanfics right now, so I decided to write something new! I know the title may be confusing, so I'll just leave it to the characters.

England: Kira does not own Hetalia. If she did there'd be WAY more yaoi online.

America: Also, this guy over here (points at Iggy) is kinda OOC for a reason.

England: Not THAT much OOC, just a bit!

America: What do ya expect? This is an angst fic...

Me: Anyway, enjoy!

England and America: AND REVIEW!}

It was dark, and the darkness ebbed at my soul, making me feel so alone. Even though my breaths weren't strained it felt as if someone was constricting my throat. My eyelids felt heavy and tired and my head ached dully as if I'd been jolted awake too early. It was a mellow pain that I barely even felt through the stab wound in my chest.

That one was the worst. As I reached up to touch it with a surprisingly steady hand, the tightness in my throat began to get worse. I could only huff, turning my head away to the right, where nothin different laid.

I felt so alone, so very abandoned and sad. I was at my end, and as I though this, the threat of tear began to loom. As much as I wanted to cry, just ball up and sob away my loneliness like I'd done every other time before this, but I didn't. I couldn't. I could hear the loud engines of cars speeding past my building through the open window, feel the light pat of still falling rain as it made it through the blades of my fan.

The weather wasn't helping, and I turned away to my left. Now there was something to look at; a small, silver picture frame rested on my bedside table. Next to it sat a pair of glasses, one lens cracked beyond repair, and a small, velvet box. In the frame two smiling faces beamed out, nearly making the held back tears overflow. I shut my eyes and gritted my teeth before looking back.

In the picture we were holding hands, our faces turned away from the camera towards the colorful sunset ahead. I sighed as I reached out to stroke the glass over the second boys head, fighting the dull ache when I thought of him. His name was Alfred. He'd been so young, an I'd been so very alone; until one day I'd found him. I took him in when he was still merely a child; fed him, bathed him, loved him even. More than you'd ever know.

But then he grew up, and before I knew it, the small boy I once called mine was gone, swept away by the curious winds from the west.

It's been three years since he left. Three years of absolute, three years of Hell. I used to cry, used to crawl into the house at one AM, half dead and bleeding from various fights. I eventually started to realize something: he was never coming back. Once that sunk in I stopped rebelling against my pain and just let it flow, spilling out of me with each breath.

I still dream about him, and I hate myself for doing so. His smiling face, those gleaming, brilliant blur eyes he hid for a while under long bangs. That one piece of stubborn hair he'd affectionately named Nantucket. He'd been the light of my life, and then that light disappeared; blew out of my life as if it'd never existed.

Turning back to the ceiling, a single tear rolls down my face. I don't wipe it away, knowing that the flood would come if I so much as acknowledged it. My heart, it seemed, was broken long ago, though that boy made me forget about it. I can still remember the day I'd realized my feelings towards him. I'd started to push him away, afraid I'd hurt him or ruin what we had. But of course, what we did have was short lived, and at the age of 17, barely 10 years since I'd taken him in, he left.