The Bloody Aftermath

Chapter VI

After all that, England had to move with extreme difficulty, and stumbled out of the restroom to his bedroom, falling face forward on the bed, legs hanging off. Exhaustion was truly getting the better of him, as the almost black circles under his eyes proved, and for the first time in weeks, he fell asleep of his own accord, a dreamless sleep.

When he woke up once more, he smiled. He had fallen asleep without alcohol, and not a single nightmare from the ones he usually suffered from every night. That is, until every negative thing about his situation hit him and his face fell back into it's usual expression. 

Once he saw his living room, he knew he should clean the mess, but... It just seemed... Right, in some twisted way, so he left it be. Naturally, it was of no help with discouraging further self harm...

Last night was the last time he would sleep like that for about a month, as he sunk further into his depression, as he forgot the meaning of self-care, as his body collected and became littered with more and more self-inflicted scars, as he slowly died on the inside more each day. 

He had even begun hallucinating; He would occasionally see America, who would taunt him mercilessly. It was ignorable at first, but it worsened each time to the point when England couldn't tell reality apart from dreams and hallucinations. Everyday was like a lucid nightmare. 

Now every time he hurt himself, he thought it was America doing it, and only then would it hurt. At night, it was the worst, with his screams constantly piercing the nightly silence. He would yell out for his brothers, for France, for Canada, for anyone he knew and loved even remotely, with the obvious exception of America. He wanted America, but England never wanted him to hurt him like that.

Had he been human, he would have been long dead. How he didn't fall into a coma yet was unknown, but it was bound to happen soon enough, a bit of peace from the endless torture that haunted him endlessly day to day. 

The last day of the seemingly endless torment was the worst. America was clawing at his throat with glass, those very glass shards from that very mirror that was one of the gateways into this blackhole. It hurt, it hurt so much, but England could no longer scream, silent tears cascading down his pale, thin cheeks, his gaunt face twisted into agony. 

A knock was issued at the door...

But he was deaf to the sounds of the world.