'ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴏʙᴀʟ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴀʟ' || ʜᴇᴛᴀʟɪᴀ

2

"England. July 9th, 2005."

'This is it, Arthur," the Brit thought to himself. 'Do it for Alfred. Deep breath, and stay calm.'

"840 directly affected, 56 fatalities. They haven't all been found, but I can feel them. I was there. I was just walking through the London streets like I do everyday, walking among my people in the morning light."

Francis rested a hand on Arthur's shoulder. He remembered everything that happened in the time following that day, and he wished he couldn't. He wished they could all forget, but it was impossible. Arthur continued to shut out the rest of the world. Alfred continued to look at Arthur.

"I was passing Liverpool Street Station when the first bomb exploded. I heard it. I saw it. I felt it. The first one felt like a bullet had pierced my heart. Not even a minute later, a second attack. Then a third. Then a fourth. All around me, people were screaming, bleeding, dying. I could feel their heartbeats stop, their breaths end."

'If I let anyone suffer like I did, alone and painfully, then I'm selfish and heartless.'

"I should've learned. It hasn't even been fours year since what happened to America. To Alfred. I should've known there would be more. I should've known that it would happen to me. I haven't slept in over twenty-four hours. I feel sick, I feel light-headed, I feel disgusted by myself. I let this happen. I let my people suffer and die, and all because I was being so blind."

Arthur let his head hang a little lower. He came to terms that what he'd done and said to himself a long time ago, and he knew that it was all, in the end, a mistake. He still held regret for what he did and subjected those closest to him to. It would haunt him forever.

"I'm sorry. I'm so pathetic, I'm so weak, I'm so stupid. Why am I here? Anyone else would be strong, and they'd prove that they weren't going to be hurt and torn apart by anyone. But me? All I can do is cry like a motherless child. I won't let anyone see me like this. I can't."

'Shame... So much shame... Don't hate me...'

"Do you remember that revolver I keep in the drawer of my desk? Maybe if I have an accident, people won't see it as cowardice. I've never been shot before. Not in the chest, at least. I can find out if those explosions really did feel like a bullet to the heart. Wouldn't that be an adventure? I think so. If I don't write in the next three days, thank you for being a good listener."

All eyes were on England. He didn't want to open his eyes and look at all the horrified faces around him. He regretted what he did, and he knew it was foolish. He didn't die, but he had the scar as a permanent reminder of his pain. Alfred couldn't believe it. He never thought that Arthur would ever try such a thing... He looked up at Francis, his eyes only slightly less tearful than they were before, and he mutely asked: did you know?

"You can tell them." Arthur said, not moving, not looking still. He felt Francis' hand gently squeeze his shoulder, almost apologetically, and he grew tired of waiting. "Cat got your tongue, Frog?"

France sighed. "If you're sure."

Arthur meekly smiled. He wasn't going say any more. Resting his hand on top of Francis', he continued to wait for the whole truth to come out. For too long, it had been locked away and buried. Maybe this would be like a therapy session for everyone. He made a mental note to personally thank whoever had created this book, that was, if they ever found out who was behind it all.

"The day after that entry was written, I went to pay Arthur a visit. I had hoped to check on him and make sure he was alright, unsure if he'd actually want to see me." Francis began to explain. "I didn't get a response to my knocks, to the calls, so in the end I had to force my way in. I was terrified for him." he said, lightly shaking his head. "When I found him, he was in his study, but not exactly... U-Uh..."