B l o o m (CountryHumans AU by MapleChild)

|Echo|

I woke up to the morning sun shining through my blinds, directly into my eyes. I turned into my side, groaning slightly until sitting up and rubbing my eyes. I sighed gently and opened the dresser packed with the clothes I had brought along with the clothes I had already. I grabbed a pair of black jeans and a dark grey shirt, changing into them. Both fit well despite the fact I'm growing fast, I'm turning 11 in a few days and I'm already taller than the average 12 year old. My dad is probably who I get my height from, which still scares me. Did I also inherit the ability to hurt someone? I push the thoughts out of my head and head out of my room, looking down the stairs at the living room. The bustling sounds in the kitchen tell me that they're already eating. I turn the corner yawning again and moving to the cabinets and grabbing the bowls that are neatly stacked together. On top of the fridge, all the way in the back, we keep the cereal. I always have to use the stool, but before I can grab it, Australia grabs the box for me. "How's your hand?" He asks. I almost forgot that it was even hurt. I slowly undo the bandages, revealing the still clean, but very painful looking cut across my hand. "Don't mess with it." He says when I reach to touch it. I nod, wrapping it back up. "What happened?" Father asks, making me jump a bit. Australia begins to answer, "Oh yeah, Last night Canada.." I looked at him, a supplicating look in my eyes. He knows what will happen if Father found out I broke anything. "Cut himself on a knife. He was washing the dishes and I scared him." He answers smoothly. I breathe out a sigh of relief, opening the fridge to grab the milk carton off the shelf. I Slowly pour the bland cereal and milk into bowl. Afterwards, I carefully walk to the table to avoid spilling it. I set it down and walk back over to the sink where I grab a spoon out of the drying rack we have set up next to the sink. Walking back over, I dip my spoon into the cereal and eat what any normal person would consider slow, but fast to my standards. "Slow down." Father says. I tense up slightly, swallowing fast to answer quickly. "Sorry, Father." I say, slowing my pace down. I finish and take my bowl to the sink, washing it and placing it back in the cupboard. "We have the Conference in 2 days." Father says to fill the silence. He stands up and walks over to me. I turn around by reflex, and he grabs my arm. I turn my head to the side and . "You stay quiet. About all this. It's beyond me why France hasn't Ratted me out, but if you did it.." I open my eyes for a second as he acts as if he's about to raise his hand. "Hey!" Australia calls out. I look over at him. He looks at me for a second then looks away. "Y-You should do that. The conference? He'll be all scuffed up." He says. Father Glared down at me, dropping my arm. I sighed gently, walking off immediately. I go to my room and close my door. Why did Australia even stand up for me? What happened between when I was gone and now? Everything was so confusing. I also had that Conference to prepare for. Sighing, I sit down on the floor in front of my door. 'It's too early to go back to sleep' I think to myself. I get an Idea. I walk over to my dresser. On top of it is my notebook, along with a picture of the family. It's the only one in the house with mom in it, that's why I put it in my room. I look away from the picture and get my Notebook. I grab a pencil from my nightstand, one I'm guessing I've had here for a while, because of how dull it is. I sigh gently and open my drawer, moving my hand around it blindly until I feel a sharp object poking my hand. It's a pocket knife my mom gave me, it's pristine, beautiful, even. I've never liked sharp things. It made me feel like I could hurt something easily, against its will. I shudder at the thought of hurting something badly. I go back to the knife, picking it up and placing it in my hand. I've only used it to sharpen pencils, but as I'm about to draw it across the surface of the top of the dull pencil, a thought quickly passes through my mind. 'How much would it hurt? To cut yourself with it.' I push it out of my head. 'If I don't want to hurt anybody else why would I hurt myself?' I reassure, dragging the sharp end of the knife across the top of the pencil.
After it is sharpened, I put the pocket knife back into the drawer, pushing it into the back so Father wouldn't find it, and closing the drawer.
I write and draw a lot. Mostly abstract things, like fuzzy memories of old friends and such. I draw a lot of America and Russia, sometimes Japan. I look eerily toward the drawer. 'How much would it hurt?'
I catch myself immediately.
'Russia told me he used to hurt himself.
He said it's like an addiction, something you move into your daily routine. He said that if I ever did it, he'd be disappointed. That's the last thing I'd want to have happen, because Russia is someone I look up to, and not to mention how my brothers would feel.' The guilt trip I put myself through pushes me away from the thought completely. I sigh and pull myself off of the floor. Before I put the notebook up, I flip to the front. I've been writing since I was at least 7. I remember my first entry. I read over it, remembering what happened back then.

October 17, 2013.
Mother came home from work while I was cowering in the corner. I was curled up into a ball, blood spilling from somewhere on top of my head. America and Australia were outside with Russia, an older kid that I'm STILL kind of scared of. My mother came up and kneeled before me, feeling the top of my head. I flinch at the sudden movement. "England! Are you trying to kill our son?!" She said in her familiar thick accent. "One day I'll come home from work to a dead child! And that'll be your fault! You SALAUD!"
Ouch.
I've never heard her use cuss words before. I heard clamoring, before realizing she pushed him. He inhaled deeply, Returning to whatever he was working on. She walked over to me and picked me up. I guess I'm light, because mother was slightly sick and not as strong as she usually is. I ended up going to bed without supper.

I read the next day, feeling my heart sink with all the memories I felt that day. And I'm back in this house, but it just feels so different without her.
October 18, 2013.
Mother left. America woke me up late at night, to go see why there was so much noise downstairs.
It was mom. She called Dad names that I'm too afraid to write. She grabbed her bags. She left. Dad called her a "Whore"? Whatever that means, and slammed the front door behind her. Dad turned towards the stairs and America stood up and looked down from the wooden railings. "D-Dad?" I'm pretty sure he stuttered. I stood up too, looking at America. He smiled though a pretty pained expression. "Go back to bed." Dad commanded us.
I'm sleeping in America's room tonight.

I remember calling father dad. It's like a taboo now, I can't call him dad under any circumstances. I don't even think of calling him anything other than father. I feel my lungs tighten and my head start to hurt. 'Am I crying? I didn't want to cry. What's wrong? What's wrong with me? Maybe I'm the reason mom left. Maybe everything is my fault.'
The thoughts flood over me. I try to console myself, but nothing seems to be helpful. I'm crying pretty loudly, I don't know why nobody has said anything. Suddenly, footsteps from the bottom of the steps scare me enough to turn my sobs into soft whimpers. The footsteps stop at my door,
It's Australia.
He walked into the room, looking at me. I had my head in my hands. I felt a weight slightly increase on the bed. "Hey.." he said, almost understandably. He pulled me into a lean onto him, and moved my hands away from my face. My eyes were probably a reddish color around them,but you couldn't tell because of the red in my flag. "I.." he looked over like he didn't know what to say. "I never saw how bad I treated you when you were here." He confessed quickly. I was almost shocked. I blinked the tears out of my eyes alms looked up at him. He sighed gently. "And I never realized how much I would actually miss you if you left. And when you did, I saw how bad he was to you."
Is this a sick joke? Or is he being serious? "A-Are you joking?" I said to him. He let out a short chuckle. "I was really that bad to you?" He laughed. "I really am a great fucking person, aren't I?" He said, laughing through the very obvious tears coming down his face.
"It's okay." I reassure, pulling him into a light embrace. He smiled and messed up the Faux cap I wear almost 24/7. "Dumbass.." he said, chuckling, before getting up. "Dad needs me. Keep it down, ok?" He said, smiling.
I smiled back.
I went to bed happy, nothing bad crossing my mind until I went to sleep.

[A/N: SORRY I WAS GONE FOR SO LONG!
I had to go to the hospital and they gave me one of those things where it's like
They put someone else's blood into my blood?? Idk :^/ but here we are! So I'm good, that Ask Canada series Bouta be released jus let me get home,
But yeah! Always remember:
Be nice to everybody, but if somebody lays a finger on Canada (Or South Korea) you have permission to cut a bitch-
Probably Einstein's 2nd Cousin or something
Stay Gucci <(uwu🌺)/