The Tragic of England

     I don’t know what happened first, and I’m not sure I want to. I was running down the street towards school, knowing fully well how late I was. I slipped in the doors and into the front office. I signed in, telling the paper a few other needless details of why I was late. I Snatched the written note and ran up the stairs down the halls to first period English.

     “This is the third time this week Ms. Harvey. I don’t expect you late again or I’ll have to give you an after school tutoring pass,” Mr. Kelly sighed. I nodded breathlessly and took my seat. No one noticed. No one turned to look at me weird. No one even cared. Just how I hated it. I gave myself exactly twenty seconds to calm down before paying extra close attention to the lesson on proper etiquette.

     First period molded into second period science, which flipped into third period math, which again countered to History. Lunch was as lonely as ever, and when I got to Advanced art, I felt like crumpling into a pile. Art then melted into creative writing, and then the long day was over. I Began my walk home, walking the opposite way from every other student. Most of the kids didn’t live in the neighborhood that the school sat cozily in. It was a place for the wealthy, but I didn’t understand why I was the only one who live on my street.

    I was a block away from the front doors to my haven when something glinted in the sunlight up ahead. I approached it, finding it to be a heart that had a british flag within its boundaries. I looked around awkwardly before slipping it into my pocket. I wasn’t normally one to do such a thing, but this charm entranced me somehow. It seemed magical, in a way. As if it would lift my spirits from the pits of depression. Little did I know!

     I slinked into the empty mansion, announcing my arrival with an, “I’m Home~!” There was no reply. There never was. Mother and Father always left on important business trip after two seconds of being with me. I dragged myself to the kitchen, to where I made myself a beg of popcorn for my snack. I started on my homework and finished the useless papers in ten minutes flat. 

     It was a routine, now. Ever since I was deemed old enough to take care of myself back when I was ten. Fourth grade was when I started being alone. It was hours at first, but hours turned into days and days to months, and then months to a year tops. My parents didn’t even bother to call, but it was perfectly fine. I was fine.

     I started dinner of some british dish, which reminded me of the charm. I pulled it from my pocket and looked it over. Upon further inspection, I found it to be a locket, and fiddled it into opening. I clicked open, revealing a single picture. The problem: I knew this man.

     You see, there’s this anime called Hetalia, and I’m a bit of an addict to it. It’s probably what keeps me from ending my life. Being sixteen and having no life beyond the computer isn’t all bad, but it’s lonely. So I imagine I’m talking to a Hetalia character, and suddenly, their real. What this has to do with the man in the locket? He’s a Hetalia character. I can tell by the bushy brows and the forest green eyes that its Arthur Kirkland, the representative of England. That’s not what frightens me. What does though, is I can tell no cosplayer could pull or how and what he’s doing in this picture. He’s trying to cook, and the food looks rather repulsive. He seems to be enjoying himself all the same.

     It’s no cosplay, and it isn’t an anime drawing either. It’s real life. That means they’re all real. I scream at my discovery, but bury the locket back into my pocket, trying to forget all about it. I stuff my homework back in my bookbag, start my dinner’s cooking timer, and leave to go retrieve my laptop.