Poland started awake in a cold sweat. Short gasps heated the air around him. His vision was blurry and the sun streaming through the window didn't help in the slightest. As his breath slowed and his heart rate went down, his eyesight returned and he looked outside. Birds chirped about the morning, but Poland could care less. He rubbed the crust from his eyes and took in one long breath before exhaling slowly.
After a few more minutes of gathering his wits, he turned his legs over the side of the bed and lowered himself onto the floor. It was freezing cold, but it didn't matter. In all honesty he was kind of numb to it.
He thought about taking his blanket with him, bit decided against it, seeing as he needed to get dressed. So, in nothing but a pair of blue boxers, he trudged over to the closet across the room and pried open the door to make his dress choice.
He settled for nothing more than a simple white T-shirt covered by a beige wool sweater that zipped up to his neck, and a pair of brown slacks. He struggled with fitting his wings through the shirt and sweater, but managed as usual.
He didn't bother with shoes, cause he want really planning on leaving soon. So he ate his breakfast of ham, eggs, and toast with a cup of coffee. When he finished his plate, he took it to the sink and made himself another cup of coffee. Then he sat down by the large window of his back living room, sipping idly and admiring the view of the outside.
He didn't want to go outside today. There was nothing to do, and he didn't trust it out there, in all honesty. He'd become somewhat of a hermit, truthfully, only going out to run errands and go to work. And once in a while, he'd be invited somewhere and go out of politeness.
Recently, though, he'd been having some company. Japan would sometimes come over and make conversation, perhaps bring something entertaining and they'd possibly go out for a walk.
She really was a nice girl. Poland liked her. He could see why she and America were best friends, too. She and he were playful people, socialites. They grew up together.
Poland himself wasn't much of a talker, and preferred the NPC route: not speaking unless spoken to.
Maybe he was jealous. Jealous that she could be so easily outgoing, despite her horrifying history. Of America too, for the same reasons. Of everyone, really. How do they go about their days when they have done all this horrible shit?
Poland couldn't forget anything. He was forced to remember lives he'd taken. The choices he'd made, and the feeling of being ripped in half before being sewn back together. He remembered, oh, he remembered. It still happens. He dies, but doesn't stop living. He comes back everyday, new, but still feeling. If he was chopped down, he'd feel the blade in his stomach even after he healed. If he had been lynched or simply hung until he stopped breathing, he would feel the burn of the rope the next day. When he'd drowned once, he woke up gasping for breath and coughing, feeling the water still running down his lungs.
Oh he'd been killed so many times. His wings were nothing more than a reminder of what he couldn't achieve. What he wanted for so long, but could never have. He just wanted it over. No more pain. Death was a welcome experience by now. He could care less where he would go after, so long as everything just stopped. Just ended.
Shit. Was he crying?
He hadn't noticed any tears until a fresh, hot tear dripped on to the back of his hand.
He needed to calm down somehow. So with shaky hands, he clumsily grabbed for a box that rested on the windowsill.
Even through his trembling body, he sparked the Zippo with practiced ease and lit the cigarette between his lips.
Inhale. A deep burn like slow poison gas filled the lungs.
Exhale, the tingling sensation left him, leaving nothing but unjumbled nerves and clearer thoughts.
He watched the smoke dance in the air, and watched it be joined by the smoke trailing from the cancer stick in his hand.
He stared at the burnt end, watching orange embers die out.
His body moved on it's own. There were no more thoughts to fill his head, nothing to stop him from it.
He lifted his hand and brought the cigarette down on his skin.
He didn't even feel how his skin screamed and pried away from the fire.
~~~
A/N: sorry I've been working on this too long and I really forgot where I was going with it, so I'm ending it here
