Please, I Can Change

Chapter 16

((Last chapter meh... Self-harm and suicidal stuff ahead. Note. I will be switching POVs a lot of the time. Enjoy!))

                 (Arthurs POV)

I left after the fight last night. I went back home because I had to think so many things over and I didn't want to stay at Francis' house when we were both still angry at each other. My face burned as I still had the same rage adrenaline pumping as I always do when I get angry. Francis frustrated me massively and I was boiling with anger. The problem with him is that he never accepts love, a little ironic with him being the country of love. At least, before all of this happened. He pushes away anyone who could possibly care for him, especially myself. He just doesn't see how much that I am in love with him. Of course I loved him more than Alfred. I just wish that I could help him see that, that's all.

When I got home that night, it was 2:17 as I looked at my clock.

"Bloody hell..." I muttered to myself as I collapsed on my bed and closed my eyes, hoping to get some sleep before tomorrow.

(Francis' POV)

I hate that stupid black sheep. I knew it would end like this, and guess what? I was right about everything. He loved Alfred and I knew that nothing could change that fact. Even he wants me to die now, so I guess.... I guess this is it.... The only thing stopping me from doing this earlier was Arthur, because I actually and truly believed that he loved me. My safety net from death has shattered and before long, I will fall into the blackness.

I didn't want to end it like this. Everyone would be there, seeing the smiles on my face, not knowing that there is a broken man behind the mask. Arthur knew that I was going to kill myself but I couldn't care less. It doesn't matter who knows, for all I want is to fade and be forgotten.

I sat against the wall with my head in my hands, still crying. I was so angry at everyone: Arthur, Alfred, the world. I was angry about having my heart ripped out way too many times, having it torn and abused before being handed back to me. If this was what I knew living was like, I swear to fuck I would have never wanted to have been born.

The knives lay on the floor, tempting me. I couldn't stop; they were irresistible and I wanted them to do what they had to do with my body. I didn't want to die this way, I wanted to see my blood drip out of me. I do this because I deserve it, I know that I deserve everything that I have had to go through since I was alive. The countless wars with England, the revolution, the fall of the French Empire and Napoleon, World War 1 and 2, the Suez Canal Crisis, the Paris attacks this year, the Bastille day tragedy in Nice on my goddamn birthday, the shootings in Normandy. I deserve every last bit of pain that life has thrown at me. It is hard to believe that France was only the most strong power in Europe, but since then I have fallen to the point of surrendering every time I am threatened.

Weak

That's truly what I am. As a nation and as a person. I guess that's why I am made fun of so often.

It was hard to believe that I was once strong. More than strong;I was the most powerful nation in Europe. I have only lost 49 battle, drawn one and in conclusion have won 109. Better than any other of those stuck up Europeans who say I'm weak enough to surrender to the fucking Boy Scouts.

Where did it all go wrong?

The knife handle was warm as I picked it up, as if it had been gripped in the same way recently. I grinned and took off my shirt to begin.

I placed the blade, sharp and silver, against my bare skin, resting it comfortably on the surface. The handle turned and sliced through the surface, leaking blood down my arm and onto my stomach. It flew out of my arm and rested on the skin below before I repeated the procedure.