Little bit of angst, etc...
Then, a whole lot of national pride! Woo! I had the urge to write about an emo-ish Canada and a supportive America, but then... this happened. And I kept writing it till the end.
Seriously, now I wanna gather a bunch of people in red and white and make a flag on Parliament Hill.
-Panther-chan
He was always the last one to be noticed, the last one to be thought of, the last one to be seen. His brother was always the first one to be noticed, the first one to be thought of, the first one to be seen. And he was tired of it.
He held a gun to his temple, tears dried on his face and lower lip held between his teeth. He had had enough of never being noticed, of being stepped on, sat on, and forgotten. He was tired of being mistaken for his brother, tired of being invisible.
Maybe, if he ended it, they would finally see him.
Meeting after meeting, they forgot he existed, forgot he was there, forgot he wasn't his brother. They forgot his name, his place in the world, his contributions to science, health, everything. They didn't care enough to see past his brother to him, to the quiet one in the back who was home to millions of people who cared for each other more than they cared for themselves.
Could he end it like his? Could he leave his brother behind?
He was too kind, too forgiving. He never forgot, but he forgave. His brother, he knew, sometimes took advantage of this. But no one knew how much it really hurt to be forgotten, to not be seen, to not be acknowledged.
They hurt him, but would this hurt them back?
Knocking came from the front door of his house, some distance away, and he ignored it. Ignored it like they had ignored him. But no, he didn't want to be like them. Didn't want anyone to ever feel the way he did all the time. So he stood, hid the gun, and went to answer the door.
Who was it? Some else thinking he was his brother?
The door opened and the louder nation that stood outside threw his arms around his brother. "Mattie! How you doin'?" He didn't respond, throat too clogged up with conflicting emotions. He remembered him. He actually remembered him, his name, his existence. "Sorry I wasn't here yesterday! It was your birthday, but I had to take care of New York... hey, are you okay?" He was held at arm's length, his brother's now-concerned face taking in his bloodied lip and his tear-streaked face. "Shit, did I make you sad yesterday?"
No. You make me sad every day, brother.
He sighed, shutting his eyes and gripping Matthew's shoulders tightly. "Look. I know I haven't been the best brother in the world, but there's no excuse for missing your birthday. Tell you what – we'll have a huge party on the border, and both our countries will be there! Alright?"
It's too late, brother. You're too late by at least a century.
He shrugged his brother's hands off and pushed him out the door, slamming it shut and locking it, double locking it, triple locking it. He didn't want to see his face, hear his voice. After all that he had done for his dear older brother, the lout couldn't be bothered to be there for his birthday. A single day. A single phone call. A single email. But there was nothing.
If he was gone, would he be sad? Would he feel regret?
He picked up the gun again and flicked the safety off. He knew how to use it, thanks to his years in the World Wars – the wars to which he had greatly contributed. Without him, they might have lost. Without his determination and his protection, they might have lost. But they still didn't remember him.
Would any of them remember his death after a day? Was it pointless, either way?
Another knock at the door. He was tempted to ignore it, but he knew that it was one of his people. He didn't want to, couldn't ignore his own people. Not after all that they had done for him. No. He would never turn his back on his own people. He stood again and went to answer the door.
Would they stop him? Or would they want to disappear, too?
A huge crowd was milling around on his front lawn. They were all Canadian, but with mixed heritages: like the rest of the country, they were multi-national and were at the very least tolerant of each other. One of mostly German descent, with long brown hair and cautious hazel eyes, was the one to knock. Another, skinnier girl with short, dark brown hair and Italian blood was to her side.
"Are you okay?"
He almost started to cry again. His people, his citizens, were concerned for him. Enough to rush to his house the moment they felt something wrong and gather in droves, all worried and apprehensive and caring.
"We felt your sadness. Can we help with something?"
His birthday was yesterday and they already celebrated, though, so why would they gather today? Was he really that important to them? Suddenly, a roar went up from the crowd and thousands of pieces of paper were held up, white and red and vibrant in the midday sun.
From the sky, it could be seen: a giant red-and-white Maple Leaf flag. The Canadian flag.
The mostly-German-but-still-Canadian girl (Emma, he thought absently – her name was Emma) turned and held up her hands, a smile on her face. She lowered them and brought a megaphone to her mouth, and said, "One! Two! Three!"
And they sang. "O, Canada... Our Home and Native Land..."
Throughout the song, Matthew could feel tightness in his chest, one of love and sadness and pride and belonging and remembrance. He felt loved, and he loved. He felt sadness, and they did too. He felt pride, and they shared it: the pride of being Canadian. They all knew that Canada was a place where they belonged, no matter what. And as a nation, they remembered their love and pride of Canada.
When she turned back to him, unshed tears in her eyes and pride in her heart, he broke down and fell to his knees, sobbing. She and her friend fell with him, embracing him tightly and crying with him. The Italian-descendant cried openly, but the other simply let her tears fall. She whispered to him, "You know, I've always wanted to hug Canada. And every time I hear people singing "O Canada", I want to cry, because I'm so damn proud of this country and being a part of it."
He didn't remember being in his room for a long enough time for them to gather on his front yard. He didn't remember crying for long enough to hear them chant the "O Canada" dozens of times, toasting each other and the country, remembering all that had fallen on Canadian soil. He didn't really see anyone when they came up to him, one at a time and numbering in the hundred-thousands, to pat his shoulder, to hug him, to kiss his cheek or forehead and tell him what he meant to them.
He just remembered their feelings. Love, joy, acceptance...
Pride. They were proud.
He could still remember his heart beating in tandem with theirs, his citizens' thoughts all revolving around freedom and rights and tolerance and help, and the overwhelming pride that they felt when they said, "I'm Canadian!"
And that night, the two girls and a large man who used to be American (Emma's dad, he knew) helped him to bed. Emma refused to leave, and her father (a caring and understanding man) knew his daughter's stubbornness, and left with the Italian girl.
"I always knew that Canada wasn't really well known, and I always knew that America would overshadow us... But I also always knew that we knew the true meaning of freedom, and tolerance and love and pride in one's nation."
She told him about her life, about her sad childhood filled with conflict – and how simply remembering that she was in Canada, that she would grow up in a mosaic of cultures and have education and health care available to her everywhere, helped her grow up accepting and understanding.
He knew all that already, but hearing it from her mouth gave it impact. She was proud.
His brother visited again, but she didn't want to let the two see each other. However, she respected his wishes and let Alfred in anyway, leading him to his brother's room where the tear-soaked pillow and Kumajiro were waiting. Matthew was splashing his face with cold water, trying to get rid of some of the blotchiness. He didn't want his brother to know how close he was to killing himself out of misery – caused by him.
"Hey, Mattie... Um..."
"It's okay."
His brother was surprised at his smile, and he took advantage of this, sitting on his bed and moving to the head, where he could lean against the headboard. His citizen, attitude changed because of the other country's presence, watched Alfred like a mother bear protecting her young. Which was ironic, because she was so much younger and weaker and frailer than him. But he liked the feeling he got in his chest, the familiar tightness at her pride and protectiveness of Canada.
"I feel really bad, Mattie... I should have been there, or at least called or something." His brother sighed. "Next meeting, I'm going to present a new immigration plan. It's not something to do with heroes or hamburgers or something. I think you'd really like the idea... Is that a gun?"
He nodded and his brother, wary now, stood to inspect it. It was fully loaded and the safety was off – and there was crusted blood from where Matthew had pushed it too hard against his temple. His head was suddenly grabbed, roughly, and the almost-healed bruise was revealed.
"Oh God, Mattie... why would you...?"
"You don't have to tell him, you know," Emma interrupted, now standing and pulling Alfred's hand away from his brother's hair. She gently brushed it back over the bruise and faced the visiting nation. "Why do you think?" she muttered, turning and walking to the door. "I'll be downstairs, Canada."
"Okay. Take Kumajiro."
"Yeah."
The bear stood up and waddled after her, sensing the mood change. Alfred collapsed onto the bed. "Is it... my fault?" he asked hesitantly, not really wanting confirmation. His brother shook his head vehemently.
"No, not at all! It's got nothing to do with you!" he replied, trying to be strong and insistent. He could tell his brother wasn't buying it.
"Don't lie, Mattie. Please."
What was he supposed to say? He didn't want to hurt him.
"Um... Alfred?"
"Yeah, Mattie?"
His brother was hugging him tightly again, and he could feel the tightening in his chest fading a bit. The feeling of pride remained, however, and it lifted his spirits. "Really, it's nothing."
"Don't tell me that, Mattie! You were going to kill yourself!" Alfred held him at arm's length again, eyes wide and sad with a hint of anger. "We're brothers, right? So tell me what's wrong!"
Matthew felt something snap inside of him. Why the hell would his brother be angry? He was supposed to be supportive and caring. "You want to know what's wrong?"
"Yes!"
"I wonder... why do you only notice me when I'm in pain?"
Alfred paled and pulled his hands away. "I don't... that's not-"
"It is true, Alfred. No one ever notices me until something goes terribly wrong, or until they need help and no one else will give it." He felt angry now, more so than he ever had – except for that time when his brother had burned down his parliament buildings. "Get out," he muttered, looking away from his brother. "Please, just leave."
"Mattie..."
"I'll call you later. So, please leave."
He didn't hear his brother leave, didn't notice Emma come back in with a bowl of chicken noodle soup. She wasn't smiling, but wasn't frowning either. She helped her country back into bed and picked up Kumajiro, putting him on the bed too. She kneeled next to the edge and leaned her head on her fist. "You okay?" she asked quietly. He nodded and she offered him the soup. He ate it without noticing.
Why couldn't someone notice him just for the hell of it? Why did something bad have to happen first?
The next day, there was another gathering on his lawn. People dressed completely in red or white, complete with hats – and they formed another Canadian flag and sang the anthem dozens of times, drinking Canadian beer and eating Canadian food. He felt that pride again, that overwhelming happiness that they felt at being able to call themselves Canadian.
I don't want to take that happiness away, he thought to himself, more tears streaming down his face as he laughed and sang and ate with his citizens. Hugs were given out for free to anyone who came and there were so many kids wanting to hug him that eventually he just sat down and let them come.
I bet Alfred doesn't get this many hugs, he thought somewhat smugly.
The next world meeting seemed to come quickly, and Alfred kept giving him worried looks. No one else noticed him, but it didn't matter. He knew the truth: he knew he didn't need them to see him. He had a country full of people who loved him who were proud to call him their home country.
He didn't need the other countries to notice him. He had his Canadians, he felt their pride – and that was enough.
Yeah, I included my dad in the story... cause he's so damn happy to be a Canadian citizen now, even though he was born in the US...
I HAD to write this. Sorry if I stepped on any toes or something... I actually wrote it at about three this morning, but I wasn't really aware of it until I came back and noticed I had written something in my sleep...
-Panther-chan