Week of the Broken

Week of the Broken

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia

Summary: After living for so long and enduring so much it seems almost comical that it would be something so small that broke them in the end. England,

Warning: passing mentions of abuse and drinking, implied suicide, and the occasional swear word.

Chapter one: Prefect Sunday

Glass shatters, papers fly, frames break, the phone will need replacing (again), tea sets smash as Arthur destroys his office to bits for some infinite number he lost track of a few centuries ago. Destroying simply because he wants to. Simply because he needed to get it all out before the pain killed him. He screams not because he wants to or needs to. He screams himself so hoarse he won't be able to talk for days not out of some twisted definition of fun but simply because he CAN. He cries so hard he can't see through the tears simply because everything has become too much and he is no longer strong enough to deal with it. Because no matter how much he destroys or screams or cries there is no one there to stop him…

…No one there to save him.

And when he collapses sobbing in the middle of the destruction clinging to a de-framed beat up picture of his four older brothers as if it's his only lifeline he decides he's had enough.

It was Sunday.

Sunday was supposed to be a family day. The twins come over from Ireland and ALL of them hung out together after church. Yet somehow…

…. They always managed to leave him behind.

He had lost track of the many times and ways they had left him to a Sunday afternoon alone destroying his office. This time hurt the worst though and he was fed up and just done with it all in general.

It was Sunday.

Since it had fallen on a Sunday Arthur had thought they would at least tell him 'Happy Birthday' before abandoning him to his own violent nature while they went out and had fun together. Why did he even bother hoping? No one had remembered his birthday in decades, why would they now? Why would that change? The sun had set on the British Empire long ago so he had no colonies to fuss over it. All of his politicians didn't care as long as they got what they wanted (Besides the Royal Family but he can't remember the last time they had noticed the date either). He didn't have any friends because he spent so much of his time doing the work of four nations and bailing his brothers out of whatever situations they find themselves in (His attitude didn't help his case either but it's a stressful thing getting yelled at by his bosses because though he goes to these meetings he can't report anything of interest and most of the people here have abandoned him long ago anyway so why should he try to be what they want when it doesn't even matter to them?). So no one but his brothers would even bother to remember. Not that they did.

It was Sunday.

He had checked his phone to make sure everyone was still meeting after church, got dressed, sat through mass, socialized a bit, and went home so he could be there when his brothers showed up…

…Only to see them already stoned in a pub on the way. And they were loudly complaining about him…

…again.

No matter how hard he tried to be perfect it just wasn't good enough.

HE wasn't good enough.

Continuing on home anyway he checks his answering machine to see that all four of them had cancelled on him again. Maybe this time he would call their bluff. They had been stoned in a pub not at their houses with the flu. No. It wasn't worth it. The physical and verbal abuse that would follow doing such a thing wasn't needed. The emotional was a little more than he could stand right now anyway thank you very much. Besides, he was done with all this shit.

Crumbling the photo in his hand but not letting go of it he reaches for his lighter that had ended up near him and flicked on the flame. He was done with it all, so he was going to burn it all down.

It was Sunday…

… And Arthur was done trying to be perfect.