Like a Shadow

It hurts. Sure, it hurts. But when everyone forgets who I am, it's the only thing that reminds me I'm alive.

It's not like I want to die, but a life without feeling . . . well, that's pretty much like being dead to me. It's scary, to say the least.

And it's not like everything lasts forever. I'm sure a day will come when things will get better. I have hope that they will.

(Now)

In the darkness, his fingers traced lines down his right arm. The lines turned from white to red as blood flowed through the broken vessels and pores to well between the torn edges of skin. From his shoulder to his wrist, those fingers danced, their sharp nails slicing, their pads leaving crimson prints. Old wounds reopened. New wounds formed. With each one he hoped, but with each one he was let down.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Oh, god. Please tell me I'm still alive..."

He watched the blood ooze, shine in the moonlight, and streak down his arm before dripping onto his pants, waiting for the blinding, paralyzing, scream-inducing... but nothing. He felt the weight of the blood, felt it run down his skin, felt the goosebumps, but not the exciting, pulsating, mind-numbing...

"Please... I'm alive... I'm alive..."

He pinched one of the larger cuts, pressing the shredded edges of flesh together with his fingernails, squeezing out more blood. Nothing. His right hand flexed. Muscles strained against the injuries. He tried biting the skin, sucking the blood, sticking his tongue in the wound.

But nothing.

The frustration had him on the verge of tears.

He groped for the box cutter on his bedside table.

(that)

The shrill sound of the doorbell tore through his ears, followed by rampant knocking that set the pace for his heartbeat. He took a deep breath and woke with the exhale. Spots blotted his vision. The sunlight burned it. A stale metallic taste was present in his breath. He felt incredibly lightheaded.

"What the hell...?"

He made to sit up and realized only one arm was moving. His right arm lay in the middle of the saturated bed sheet, covered in scabs and dried streaks of blood. The fingers twitched on their own.

"I went too far..."

He jumped at the sound of the doorbell. Cursing, he pulled out the first aid kit under his bed and quickly splinted his arm. Over at his closet he grabbed the first sweatshirt in reach and put it on over his pajamas. He made a quick stop at the bathroom sink to fill a cup with water and rinse out his mouth.

The insistent knocking had him gritting his teeth. He let his feet fall hard on the wooden floor, hoping the knocker would hear that he was home. With a groan, he yanked the door open.

"Matt! Hey!"

"Oh, Al. Hello." He smiled weakly.

"Happy birthday!" Alfred thrust a brightly colored box at his brother's chest, who juggled it with his good hand.

It took him a second to comprehend what Alfred had said. His birthday. He glanced at the calendar in the living room.

"Don't tell me you forgot your own birthday!"

"Eh, I lose track of time. After a while... you know, the days start to flow together."

"Good thing you got me to remind you then, huh?"

He smiled. A real smile. His cheeks felt stiff.

"So is everything okay?" Alfred asked.

"Eh?"

"I called earlier this morning but you didn't pick up. You're normally up early."

"Oh. I… I had passed out, I guess. I haven't been sleeping well lately."

"Well, that's no good. I was gonna invite you out to eat to celebrate… but if you're not feeling good..."

"No, no! I can go! I just need to clean up a bit..."

"Sure. Take your time. Wait, aren't you going to open your present?"

"I'll open it when we get back."

"Okay!"

He took the gift to his room and set it on the side table. After changing his clothes and bandaging his arm again, he ripped off the bed sheet and threw it in his laundry basket.

(all)

The restaurant they went to was his favorite breakfast place, the one that had what he claimed was the best maple syrup. With an eagerness he forgot he had, he ordered his usual stack of pancakes. Alfred decided to get virtually one of everything on the menu. He laughed at the waitress's expression when she took his brother's order.

"You never change, do you, Al?" he asked after the waitress left.

"She looked like she thought I was on something. The point of going out to eat is to eat, right?" He crossed his arms and pouted.

"Yes, but not like a bear going into hibernation. But I suppose people in America eat more than people in Canada, eh?"

"Who?" Alfred asked, almost on instinct. When he saw the horror on his brother's face, he quickly said, "Kidding, kidding!" and gave a nervous laugh.

"Yeah..." His gaze shifted to the table. Alfred saw the corners of his brother's eyes shine with tears.

"Matt..." He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Sorry. Really. You know I could never forget you."

"Yeah..." Leaning back, he tried to blink back the tears.

Alfred's expression was apologetic.

"Hey... so, wanna tell me what happened to your arm?"

"This?" He regarded it without much thought. "Fell down the stairs."

"Oh."

An uneasy silence resounded until their waitress brought out their food. Two other waitresses behind her were laden with the rest of Alfred's meal. The two brothers laughed when the first waitress had to bring out a foldable table for the plates that didn't fit on the one in front of them.

Alfred mulled over piece after conversation piece, trying to think of something lighthearted to get his brother's mind off what had just happened. Unfortunately, the food in front of him was making it difficult for him to concentrate.

When his appetite was at least slightly appeased, he asked, "So... you know the conference we got day after tomorrow? 'Member what issues we're supposed to talk 'bout? 'Cause I totally lost the memo sent out—Matt? Matt, what's wrong?"

He pounded his chest, choking from having swallowed his food too quickly.

"There's a conference? So soon?" he asked.

"Huh? A message was sent out a while—oh, shit." Alfred slapped a hand over his mouth. "Matt, I'm sorry," he said through his fingers, "I can't believe this, but I think they..."

"Forgot..." His fork fell to his plate with a clatter. "Again. They forgot about me. Again." He hid his face in his hand, pushing his glasses up his forehead. Tears ran down the ends of his palm.

"Matt, I'm sorry. I..."

"Forgot, too?"

"Yeah, but—"

His brother hiccuped.

"Wait, no, not about you coming! About making sure they included you! I guess a part of me'd just hoped... this time..."

"Well, shit, Al. Why should it be any different this time, eh? Why?"

"Matt, I... I don't know. I'm sorry."

(of)

Back at the house, Alfred walked his brother to the couch in the living room and sat him down, keeping a hand on his back.

"Matt, I'm sorry, I screwed up. Today's your birthday. And I've made you cry twice now."

"Not your fault..." He hiccuped.

"I promise I'll go talk to the others. Bitch 'em out for doing this. I won't let them forget again. For sure, this time."

"Don't bother..." He rubbed vigorously at his eyes. "It's okay."

"No, it's not!"

"Damn, Al. Who'm I kidding? I'm just a ghost. I—"

Alfred gripped his brother's shoulders and forced the violet eyes to look at him.

"Don't say that! You are a real person. You're my brother and I love you. So please don't say that. Hey, what do I have to do to prove that?"

"I don't know." He shook his head. "I don't know. I just—I'm sorry, but I need to be alone..."

"But you're alone all the time, Matt. And today of all days especially, I don't—"

"Al. Please..."

Alfred looked his brother in the eye, seriousness in his voice when he asked, "Are you sure? Well… all right. If you're sure, I'll go. I'm not gonna force my company on you. But you call—seriously, call—if you need anything. All right?"

(my)

He washed his face in the bathroom sink, examining his pallid reflection in the mirror. There were circles under his eyes and red cracks on his eyeballs. His hair was a mess. Even the curly cowlick seemed lifeless. He let his hand sit in the boiling water while he muttered, "I'm alive. Not a shadow. Not a ghost. My own person. I'm alive. Not a shadow. Not a ghost. My own person..."

His reflection sneered at him. The lights above him flickered and went out. With a drawn-out sigh, he pulled his blistering hand back, turned off the sink, and went off in search for the fuse box.

He felt his way through the garage, trying to watch his step, but still tripping over a fuzzy mass. His glasses snapped when his face collided with the cement, his left hand scraped against the small stones from trying to break his fall. His right arm was crushed beneath his torso. Wincing, he got back on his shaking legs and looked with blurry vision at what he had tripped on.

His polar bear lied lazily on the cool cement.

"Did you cut the power?" he asked it.

"Yeah... since I'm the only one here and I wanted to sleep..."

He sputtered. "The only one—I'm right here! I live here too!"

"Huh?" It lifted its head up a few inches. "Who are you again?"

A vein in his head popped. Or maybe it was his sanity cracking.

(delusions)

He ran. Knocking or tripping over everything in his way, he ran.

(are)

He landed on the mattress hard, making the spring box squeak. Tears blinded his vision. His body shuddered.

"Who am I? Am I anything at all?"

He waited for an answer. He lied there face down on the bare mattress, waiting for an answer.

Any kind of answer.

All he saw through his swimming sight was red.

(gone,)

Teeth shredded the skin on his left arm. He jerked his torso so that his paralyzed arm slammed into the bed post.

"Not far enough... It's not far enough... Not enough..."

His swinging arm hit the present that had been left on the side table, but he paid it no mind, even when he heard the object inside shatter. He spit out the chunk of flesh in his mouth just to take another bite.

"You can't love your shadow, Al..."

His vision was beginning to blur. His arms fell to his side. In the space of a second, he had the ceiling in view. All he could hear was his heartbeat. All he could feel was his heartbeat.

(I)

"Still nothing, eh?"

(am)

Alfred was only minutes away from his house when he felt his heart skip a beat. Without a thought, he threw his car into a sharp U-turn and pressed on the gas.

(at)

"Matthew!" He pounded on the locked door, cracking it with his fist, punching, left hand, right hand, until it caved. He tore through the house blindly, avoiding fallen lamps, overturned chairs, broken decorations, kicking in his brother's bedroom door, hearing it slam into the wall with a hollow boom and creaking back from the unabsorbed force.

"Matthew..."

He ran to the bed. His toe hit something at the end of the side table.

"He never even opened it..."

Alfred unwrapped it. Pieces of glass fell to the carpet. He stared at the ripped picture of the two of them when they were children, arm in arm, on a beach smiling against the sunset. Tears dripped down his cheeks, wetting the picture, as his eyes turned from it to the figure on the bed draped in shadow.

(peace.)

"And I found him, white, with blood all over the mattress. Oh, god, it was horrible!" he told Arthur on the phone, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

He was at the hospital where the doctors had just finished officially proclaiming his brother's death.

"I'm so sorry, Alfred. When... when is the funeral going to be?"

"No funeral... I don't think I could handle it. Just gonna have him buried... Arthur... I'm sorry... but I don't think I'm gonna make it to the conference..."

"Well, that's quite all right. I understand completely. I can fill you in on what happens."

"Thanks..."

"Are you all right?"

"No, I'm not. I just-I feel like I just lost a big part of me... like it's just been ripped away. I just can't believe... Matthew..." He choked on a sob. His fingers combed through his hair. A passing doctor patted him on the shoulder.

There was silence on the other end of the line while he cried. His breathing was borderline hyperventilation.

His brother.

His only brother.

Gone.

He was so lost in his tears and his mourning that he didn't hear Arthur when he spoke again.

"Wait... Who?"

Notes: The words in parenthesis - collectively, "Now that all of my delusions are gone, I am at peace" - are meant to serve as scene breaks.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. What was/were your reaction(s)? Did it feel rushed? Any other comments or constructive criticism? Does "M" seem like the correct rating for this?

I don't own Hetalia. This story is not meant to offend anyone or anything in any way, shape or form.