United States of Hetalia Production

I was doing some... reminiscing... and came up with this story. A certain anon who recently reviewed on my other story actually got me sad enough to post this story. I'm not trying to be funny (which I find very hard). I don't own Hetalia.

That place is very cold.

I knew it from the moment I moved here.

From the moment they saw me pick up a book willingly.

"You're so gay."

"So retarded."

"Freak."

"Fag."

I was just a kid back then. I didn't know what those words meant. All I knew was that they were insults.

"Mama, what does gay mean?"

My mother nearly crashed the car we were in when I asked that. She had a wide eyes full of shock and... slight disgust.

"W-What? Toris, where did you learn that word?"

"The kids at school called me that. What does it mean?"

She just smiled and patted my head. "It's a bad thing. Don't worry about it. Just ignore them."

But I couldn't ignore them. They were everywhere.

Almost every pair of eyes were cold. Glaring daggers. And those who didn't glare at me just had eyes full of pity.

Nobody would go near me. Like I was the Plague. If they were assigned to sit next to me or to work with me, they would groan.

"Just get the project done and get it over with, fag."

"Eeew. It's Toris."

They would hide my books. Put used tissues in the hood of my jacket. Trip me in the hallways when I'm walking close to the stairway. Beat me. Hiss at me. Scorn me. Shoot hornets at me. Tell me to go die.

Anything and everything.

I told the teachers. They just scold them. And it earns me the name 'snitch'.

I can't fight back.

I can't tell.

I can't cry.

That place is very cold.

This is going to be my first (actual) attempt at Hurt/Comfort. Not meant to be funny.

Review, please.