Oh God, what is this? My first time writing angst. Reviews are appreciated~

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia

The nation couldn't take it anymore. He threw himself onto bed. He had lasted through the entire meeting without any acknowledgement. He had raised his voice, waited for his moment to speak but to no avail. But it's okay, it's fine. T'was a daily routine and normal, a part of him. But he felt beyond exhausted. His heart felt so heavy, so old. Air hitched in his throat as he succumbed into mindless contemplation. What was his sin? He wanted an answer. Why was he like this? He already had the answer. Why couldn't he be more like Alfred? Even at least a percent of that loud, boisterous energy? The answer was right there.

Matthew looked into the mirror. Disgusted at the display reflected; useless tears flooded the amethyst behind, nose stuffy and the beginnings of red came to surface. He blinked the tears away. Why should he cry? He always cried, always pushing everything aside. Forgiving and forgetting, washing all away with a sweet smile. That same sweet smile in there right now.

The truth was, he never forgave, he never forgot. He tried to soothe the pain but he couldn't reach his heart. His tender fingers never seem to reach the silky surface embedded with tiny capillaries, resounding in pain.

He remembered when England mistook him for America, when France didn't notice him, forgetting him, forgetting he even existed. It hurt a lot; he knows but couldn't feel it. It was preposterous, how a caretaker, 'fathers' could forget the life of which they had once cared for. Even as he stood before them in their line of vision, breathing the same air that hung in the same room, their gazes never once locked with his; no, they looked past him. Past him. How that was possible, he would never know. But, he supposed, that all along he was taking in the air that others had exhaled.

Long ago, with unripe thoughts taken from a like mind, he decided to bury his heart deep underneath what was underneath, he made a promise that he would return one day to retrieve it but he never did. A new heart had grown in place of the old, risen from down under. Matthew tried to bring back the former but the latter triumphed. His heart was gone but his thoughts remained. Someone told him that he wasn't trying enough, rather, he wasn't contributing any effort, but what lies they were.

The Canadian wanted to forgive, he could but he didn't. The barrier that was never there gleamed colours back. He looked at the answer before him. He hated everyone; they had no respect for him, degrading him down to nothing. He wanted them to descend down to Hell. Even Alfred, dear Alfred.

A deep tone spoke softly of the truth. He had let Alfred talked for him, had let him take his place. He allowed himself to be thrown around and blamed others for it. Matthew Williams is pathetic, he was told. That person mocked him, comforted him and then loved him. His whole pricked with glee as his unstable mind gave birth to the image of everyone he condemned dying, dying, dying, dying and dying. The new heart, now old reverberated loudly in his head.

He felt terrified. He needed to hurt something. He felt at ease when he remembered that Kumajirou had wandered off long ago, leaving him alone, left behind. He looked back at the mirror. That person was still there, whispering words of death of his loved ones. His voice thick with malice. The glass shattered, a crooked grin aimed back at him.

"You know your place!" Matthew spat out.

"I am where I belong." The grin replied.

That's not true.

Kumajirou peeked cautiously from the door. Its eyes lingering on its owner.

"Who are you?"

"I am Canada." The nation said. That gentle smile found its way back where it belongs.

Someone told him that he's fucked up in the head but that's just who Matthew Williams is.