RusCan: Russia's Depression.

Chapter 6

WARNING: SELF-HARM, SUICIDE ATTEMPT, DEATH

Might be spelling errors and such.

Russia awoke from his drug induced slumber, his eyes already adjusted to the dark room.

He shifted and the bed groaned as he sat up. He remembered that today was the day that he would no longer exist.

A smile slowly crept onto his pale face. He rummaged through his drawer, trying to find his gun.

However, something tickled his forehead, distracting him. He glanced up and noticed the silhouette of flowers on his nightstand. He knew he never had flowers.

'Must've been Canada's doing',' he commented to himself. 'What if he actually cares for me?'

His heart began to ache as a dark voice came through.

'Why would he care for a pathetic excuse for a country?!' it exclaimed. 'He's taking care of me and helpi...' Russia tried to argue but was interrupted.

'He's only doing it because it's in his nature. You're not special to him!' it shouted angrily. 'You just got attached because you've been so lonely all these years. Why would he care? He's just being nice."

Russia's chest began to hurt. He began to believe the voice was right. He placed his head in his hands and sobbed quietly.

He didn't want to, so he tried to hold it back. His throat burned. His eyes stung. He wanted Canada to like him as he liked, no loved, Canada.

 It laughed at his pain.

He then knew what would calm him. He slowly got up and went to the bathroom, looking for his trusty razor.

He looked down at his wrist. White lines reminding him of what he did. He brought it to his skin and winced at the cold touch.

'Do it!' the voice shouted.

He did. He cut into his skin and watched as little beads formed. He felt better already, but the voice commanded him to keep going. To go deeper. He listened.

One after another , beads turning into drops, drops turning into rivers flowing down his wrist and hand.

He felt calm at the physical pain. The warmth of his blood running down his hands. He didn't bother to clean up his wounds.

He rolled down his sleeves, wincing at the pain. The blood soon stuck to the inside of his sleeves, leaving an uncomfortable feeling. He sighed and slowly walked back to room.

'Now that we've established that, how about you find that gun,' it urged.

Russia went back to his search of the gun, and found it after a few seconds. He stood, gathering gloves, his coat, and scarf.

He pulled aside the curtains and he watched as a blizzard started getting stronger. He bundled up and sighed. As he slowly walked from his room, he realized that there was noise coming from his front room. He looked around and saw the top of Canada's head. He walked around.

'He looks so peaceful...' he thought. He smiled softly then frowned. He closed his eyes and whispered.

"I'm sorry."