Addicted >>UsUk [ Hetalia ]<<

one

"Hello.. My name is Arthur Kirkland. I'm here today because I've realized that the way I've been living is a false one.
I have condemned myself to a life of horrors, and the only reason that I'm here is because last week I attempted, in very blatant terms, to end my life.
I hoped that by coming here I'd be given the strength to pull through, and furthermore than that, the chance at a new beginning."

He sat in a circle made up of about twelve other people, all there for a program known as Alcoholics Anonymous, though in this case it was a mix. The room was absolutely quiet except for those who shifted in their grey metal chairs that scuffed the hardwood paneling, making the Brit incredibly nervous.

The dark hollow sets of glass he called eyes were shifted downwards, the voices in his head telling him all that he'd done and said wrong.
'You weren't loud enough.' 'No one really cares about you.' 'You look like a hopeless loser.'
He focused on his dull oxfords, not daring to look up again. The scuffed brown edges of the shoes reminded Arthur of himself, worse for wear and past their time. His hands that were folded in his lap felt sticky, and a routine tick was beginning to set in.
'You're a piece of shit.' 'Hear all that nothing? No one cares enough to say anything.' 'It was pointless coming here.'

"Thank you for sharing," the head of the group spoke up, breaking the dreaded silence. "All of us know the difficulty of speaking in front of the group. Yet all of us faced our fears head on, especially when deciding to come here. Arthur, you were very brave for sharing that with us. Congratulations on your first step to recovery."

The ten other heads in the circle nodded, a jumbled "Nice to meet you, Arthur" "Welcome" "Congrats" spilling out all at once.

The head of the group had a voice that was calm and soothing, quite mother-like. It stood out to Arthur, as if she reminded him of his own long forgotten mother. She had long, brown hair and bright liquid gold eyes, alert and piercing at just a glance. She was a bit taller than the Brit and skinnier as well, likely from years of drug abuse which was visible through the sunken features on her face.

She was a mother, but for only a moment. A few months after finally giving birth, her husband and daughter were killed instantaneously by a drunk driver at the head of an eighteen wheeler. Nothing could be salvaged.

After that, she drank to fill her need for self destruction, but that just wasn't enough. She went for harder drugs, using all the reimbursement money up until she ran out, leaving her penniless. Now she remains as a reminder to the world that if she could make it, then surely anyone else can, too.

Today she is a local celebrity. A professional gardener by day and a church fundraiser by night, she puts all her time into the community around her. On Tuesdays, she is here, leading a group of people who are like she used to be; lost and without will.

Each time a new member like Arthur arrives, she tells her story to remind everyone in the group everything can get better.

As the meeting concludes, Arthur picks himself up and exits in formation with all the others. They take their metal chair, fold it up, and lean it against the light grey walls of the room.

It's 7 o'clock at night in London, England. The night air is cool and refreshing, welcoming to the Brit after sweating his nerves away in that meeting. He inhales deeply, savoring the feeling of relief. After a moment, he makes the decision to walk back to his flat, which is located only a few blocks away. On his way there, he passes numerous familiar establishments, many of them bars.

Arthur shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down, burying his face in the navy blue scarf tied loosely around his neck. Praying to whatever God there was no one would notice him and invite him in for a drink, he walked briskly, needing his false reality to come true that his short stature mixed with short, dirty blonde hair would blend well in a crowd.