I'm Not Even There

I was standing right there when you had the barrel of that gun pointed right at his face. I could see the sweat drip slowly down his face. I watched his lips, contorted into agony, form the words.

"Then shoot me."

But I knew you would never do it. Because he was practically like a son to you - someone you would always look after, even once this horrible war was finished. Yes, of course he'd get his independence. But that didn't mean he had to be gone from your life forever. And after all this fighting to keep him by your side, why would you ever let him leave?

I knew you'd lower your gun. But if that was me up there, I wonder. Would you have the audacity to pull the trigger? Sometimes I wish you would. Because then I'd know that I wasn't him. That I was actually another son to you - one you would get so hung over about leaving that you'd actually do something drastic to stop it.

I know that'll never happen.

-----

I'm right behind the corner, watching you rock back and forth on the leg of your chair. You've got a bottle of beer in your hand, as if the alcohol can simply drown all the fears you have now that he's gone. There's no need to worry England, he's just a hair away. You're both still very close. After all that, you still love him, and he still loves you.

I wonder, if I was the one who was gone, would you be sitting in this same position? With a bottle of beer, murmuring to yourself and trying to brush away the hysterics? I'm not so sure. But I'm feeling a little brave right now. Can I ask?

"England, he's not gone forever, you know."

I can feel it, the way my voice is resounding around the room, bouncing off the walls in abundance and filling this tiny kitchen with sound.

Oh wait, no. I just imagined that. Truthfully, it's only a whisper. I can barely even hear myself. And of course you didn't hear. You'd have to be purposfully searching for the sound to hear it. And why would you be searching for the sound of my voice? I'm not him. I know I'm not him. But do you want me to be? I wonder if I were to dress up and play hero, if I were to yell and run through this room, would you look up at me? If only for a breif second?

"Dad, what if I were to leave?"

I'm still not recieving a response.

-----

I wonder if I was ever even a child to you. I wonder if you ever looked at me and thought, that's not Alfred. That's my son Matthew. I wonder if you were ever proud of anything I've done, as a providence under your control or as your adoptive son.

Was I ever anything close to Alfred in your eyes?

Was I ever anything besides Alfred?

I've been wondering a lot of things lately. I've think I've been thinking too much. Because of course I'm not Alfred. Maybe sometimes I wanted to be, but truly I'm glad I'm not. But to you, was I ever anything else? Or if I was, do you want me to be him now?

Well, there's only one thing to do when in a position like mine. Put your head in your hands, and cry like there's no tommorrow. No, I'm not weeping for Alfred. He's made his choice, because he's the brave younger brother that I'm not. No, Arthur, all of my tears belong to you. Because you can't see what's directly in front of you. It's like I'm not even there.

FIN.

A/N: So, one day in school, I don't know why, but I just suddenly felt REALLY sad. And I just felt like crying. Like, seriously. Nothing bad happened that day. I just felt like crying. It was weird.

So then I came up with this. I jotted down some notes on a notebook paper (I had to hide it from my studyhall partner when she asked) and then about 2 weeks later I wrote this. Yeah. It kinda sucks, but I feel sad again for some reason.

Anyways, Hetalia is not mine. I wish it was. Sorry for the angst. Really, sorry. But I like angst. ^^