• "Where is that bloody git?" England demanded for the tenth time as the rest of the nations began to get bored. America had yet to show up to the meeting he was supposed to be hosting at the UN building. Some of the nations had paired up to talk, play cards, or even tic-tac-toe on their notes. Yes, they were just that bored. They weren't worried though, Alfred usually showed up ten minutes to an hour and a half late if he was "busy" or had "forgotten something". Usually they both turned out as "Mc Donald's was overcrowded and some lazy b***h was working the counter".

    "Mon cher Angleterre," France sighed, "he'll be here soon enough. Sit, rest your feet, and come play a game of black jack." Arthur glanced at his watch; America still had an hour to show up, so he let it slide.

    "America seems not to be showing up," Ivan commented after another hour and a half later. He was the first to voice the many growing concerns over where the missing nation could be, being gone fore two whole hours when a meeting was to be had.

    Now it was England's turn to try and keep control, "Perhaps he slept in and is on his way now. Th-the git will be here soo- Russia, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

    "Calling him," the ashen haired man commented as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Deftly, he pressed the speaker button as the phone rang and rang. Everyone held their breaths, the silence feeling ominous.

    "Hey! You've reach Alfred Fantabulous Jones. Obviously this is a recording so after the beep leave your name and I'll figure out what speed-dial you're on. England, if its you, Mc Donald's was a b***h and traffic was hell and I tot- BEEP."

    Russia's eyebrows furrowed as he hung up the phone; Alfred wasn't answering . . . that was not a good sign. England worried his lip and France wringed his hands out under the table. The most powerful country in the world . . . was missing? That was unheard of! Alfred was loud, obnoxious, he owned the room he entered, and was an overall American, so how could you lose the loud-mouthed country?

    The door opened and everyone turned in unison expecting a damn good explanation. "America, where the bloody, ******** hell have you been!"

    "I-I'm sorry," the double murmured softly, "I-It's me, Canada. America isn't here either?"

    Francis frowned disappointedly at Arthur before standing up and comforting his dear sweet Mathieu. "Non, I am afraid not. Your brother probably forgot all about it."

    "Perhaps," Mathieu nodded, hugging his bear tight.

    'Please don't notice. No one notice the blood on my hands. Please over look the crimson gloves that torment me. He's not there anymore, no one to ruin my life further. Please don't notice his blood; please don't notice his blood on my hands.'

    "Well, since he isn't here, I'll take over and call this meeting extended the dates. Everyone, return to your hotels and we'll pick up once America arrives," Germany announced before closing his own notebook.

    "And wh-what if he doesn't?" Canada asked softly. No one heard him, or even noticed him for that matter, besides France who simply shrugged.

    "Then we go home," the Frenchman guessed before collecting his things and leaving.


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    England sat in his room wondering where his ex-colony could have gone. Perhaps he was on a vacation? No, he probably forgot the entire meeting and would show up the next day, but rising doubts made his stomach churn. Canada had been late too, maybe the airports were having issues at the last minute and America had to drive there, that also explained why he didn't pick up the phone with the law of cell phone use on the road. It was an annoying thing, but Alfred thought it would keep his children safe, so whatever. He'd show up tomorrow, and at most two or so day. If he wasn't in the UN by then, they were going to go searching for his bloody arse.


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    "Was it right what I did?"

    'Why are you asking? Remember all the things he did to you?'

    "Well . . . yeah . . . but he was still-."

    'You were never there, only him. No one cared about you. You were worthless, a tag along. He never even made the effort to help you out and everything he did fell onto your shoulders.'

    "Yes . . . but-."

    'It can't be undone anyway. Just move on. What about that Englishman? He never cared about you either. He took the one person who cared for you away just to keep Him safe. He never even bothered to remember your name.'

    "Must I?"

    'You must.'

    "Wh-what if I don't want to?"

    'You were late today~. They'll piece it together once they find his car, He will anyway. No one else would even remotely notice you.'

    Silence prevailed for what seemed like eternity. "Alright."

    'Tomorrow.'

    "Tomorrow," he agreed. He sat in the white chair for a while. It was soft, much like Alfred's car seats. They had been white too, or maybe a beige color. He couldn't remember straight anymore, but he could remember one thing: They weren't that light, carefree color anymore.


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    Now was it, his heart rate rose. "Wait a moment Alfred. Pull over; I need to talk to you."

    "Can't it wait until we get there? We're going to be late as it is!" the American whined.

    He shook his head, "No, please Alfie~?"

    Alfred groaned, like hell he could deny that adorable, pleading voice. He pulled over on the side of the road; a forest lay beyond the pavement, looking ominous in the dim light of early morning. Alfred had gotten the call that his passenger needed a ride since his car was in the shop so, despite the fact that he was supposed to be hosting the UN meeting which started at nine in the forsaken morning, he drove to Montreal to pick up his brother.

    They had passed over the boarder a while a go and were on the Eighty-seven heading south when Canada had pleaded for him to stop. He pulled over to the shoulder of the curb and placed the car into park. "What is it Mattie?" he asked curiously. He suddenly felt nervous from the way his brother wringed his hands in his lap and looked out the window.

    "M-may I ask you something?" he asked, sweat slicking his palms as his nerves frayed at the ends.

    'Do it.'

    "Yeah, anything in the world."

    'Remember.'

    "Wi-will you . . ." His voice trailed off as Alfred leaned closer to the other North American country.

    "Will I what?"

    Suddenly dead amethyst eyes looked back at him and a large smile was plastered on his brother's face, "Will you please die?"

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    The seats weren't white anymore. Mathieu slipped his gloves off his hands, still red from lack of washing. The white chairs, or maybe beige, were now a brilliant scarlet red, just like Alfred ******** flag. That's right, he hated that flag. He hated those colors of red, white, and blue. They all needed to die for what they did to him. He had even burned that stupid American flag the day before after making his resolution. All of them would die; every . . . last . . . one.


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    England couldn't sleep at all the night before. He had an ominous feeling in his gut which only came about when something was so terribly wrong that he just knew. Nine-out-of-ten times it had something to do with Alfred. He stayed up late watching the horrible American shows and soap operas drinking tea to keep his nerves calm. At seven in the morning the next day, the news flickered on.

    "Breaking news! A Ford truck was found in Ash Craft Pond early this morning by an early morning fisher whose boat bumped into it. Currently the county's police are pulling the car from the water."

    Arthur sat frozen, the cup in his hand shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. The car being pulled out of the water was none other than Alfred's.

    "There seems to be something in the cab of the truck," the unseen anchor woman said, drawing the Englishman's eyes to the front seats. There, just barely visible, was a dark outline behind the tinted window. It was undecipherable until the car was pulled onto dry land, the news helicopter circling to get a clear shot, and the fire department began cutting away at the door since it had been locked. Once the door came off, Arthur collapsed to the floor, his tea cup rolling away as the contents stained the hotel's clean rug.

    Inside the cab of the truck sat Alfred F. Jones, his face indistinguishably gouged and hacked at until there was nothing left to identify him by. He was still belted into his seats which had been a pale blue color, now a dark crimson and waterlogged. The only way the officers ID-ed him was from the dog tags around his neck.


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    England hadn't been the only one watching the news. Mathieu watched in giddy anticipation as they revealed his handiwork. His brother's beautifully carved face. They would find the weapon inside, his fingerprints thoroughly removed of course. He had made sure someone would find it recently, but he could have never even hoped that it would come about so soon. It was thrilling.

    Alfred F. Jones was dead, his face carved away. Now no one would mistake them for the same person. Alfred had no face anymore while he still wore him. He giggled, hugging his bear close. It wasn't alive anymore, no; the pathetic creature couldn't even remember him for a moment. Why would he want the thing to stay alive if it would constantly ask who he was? He killed it, stuffed it, and carried it around with him. A part of him regretted not having something to talk to anymore, but that bear was the epitome of everything he wanted to wipe out in the world.

    Once he was done, nobody would be asking 'Who is Canada?' or beating him for his brother's stupidity, or mistaken him for that idiot. Oh, wait, he had killed him. That's right. He strangled him to death, watched as those brilliant orbs of light faded as he struggled futilely to get air in his lungs. Still, he didn't resist. He couldn't, he didn't even understand what was happening. If he had resisted, he might still be here.

    He watched as the camera was hastily turned off by the television crew and live feed was cut off. He giggled again, a demonic little titter, as he felt the other's body go limp in his grasp again. He felt Alfred's body go cold and pale, his lips a shade of blue. Mathieu would have left him like that if he hadn't had that sudden burst of rage towards his face.

    'No one should have to share a face with the likes of him,' the voices told him, so he took a pen from the glove box an tore away the flesh, leaving the dead blue eyes for anyone who found him to see. He didn't share those eyes. He had his own. Then he stopped laughing. No, they weren't simply his eyes. That Russian, that ******** Russian, had the same eyes; the same violet eyes that he had.

    Mathieu stood angrily, in full rage, and threw the bear against the wall with all his might. He kicked the furniture, threw the chair he had been sitting on, toppling it over across the room. He didn't care how ******** early it was. And that Russian had the same colors too. That ******** red, white and blue! He would kill the Russian, pull his eyes out with his bare hands and stab through that demon heart he had! How funny, kill his brother and then his brother's boyfriend. He'd need to anyway. Ivan would figure it was him, somehow, someway. If not during the next hour wait they were going to have for Alfred. He wouldn't tell anyone about the news story and he doubted anyone else was awake to watch the breaking news.

    He ran a hand quickly through his hair. First things first: get through the next few hours which may or may not turn into days and get Russia when he least expects it. England would have to wait for his turn. He grinned darkly, habitually putting the room back together; he would make sure they knew him.

    "Can you see me now world? Can you see me now?"