Glass Half Empty | probably gonna get renamed

You Tried

The whistle blew.

I sprang to one side, narrowly missing the ball just hurled at me. I scowled at the culprit. Poland. He'd already gotten extra help by the looks of it -- he held two extra balls underneath his arms, given the high ground since he could fly off the ground. That's breaking a rule. Blah, blah, nobody cares. Switzerland makes a terrible referee. I just catch one of the balls to get him out the game, tossing an unimpressed glare at him as I turned another heel to dodge someone's hit.

I found myself at the front of the lines, which was risky considering I had thirty-four other people aiming for me. Dodgeball was actually really easy. You catch the balls and since there's not really rules, I stockpile them on my side until nobody but me has any ammunition. It's unfair. I don't care. What's more unfair is pitting the entire class against one student.

Another ball whizzed past my head. It'd be lousy aim if it weren't meant to hit me from behind. I throw myself off its range, just in the nick of time before it bounced off the wall, recrossing the boundary line and hitting the thrower's teammate with a painful smack.

An annoying voice groaned. "You're supposed to make me look good, Russia."

_______________________
(America)'s POV
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Fine, I hate Russia. That fact's obvious.

I honestly don't know why I wasted so much time trying to befriend him. I mean, he doesn't listen to my ideas at all, caring only about his own. He keeps to himself. His overwhelming awkwardness felt too annoying to deal with, he was just terrible in social situations, he doesn't listen; and overall, he hit all the wrong nerves in me. It all became a question of why I had to bother with him.

That's why we're on opposite sides of the court.

I stood on the front lines, staring at him shrewdly as I narrowed my eyes. Obviously, Russia had no chance of winning against my team. He practically crouched down like a starved, thirteenth century peasant begging for food on the streets as he protectively held a ball in his hands.

The only reason he had survived this long is because I let him. We were going easy on him, except for a few others seated on the bench -- Poland. But otherwise, I'd consider it an unanimous agreement to play nice.

"It's sad." Russia cleared his throat. "You have this many people and still can't get a hit on me."

I scoffed, stopping a loose ball about to enter his side. "We have the numbers."

"0-2, you mean?"

I snap, letting the held back sarcasm roll off my tongue. "Wow! That's great, Rus'. Want a gold star for trying?"

"No. I want you to leave me alone." He growled. "This is getting repetitive."

I finally just throw the ball at him.

He's taken aback, having to throw himself completely sideways before it can hit him on the shoulder. He immediately throws a glare my way after, already on his feet before I can launch another.

I could feel my adrenaline pump as he began tossing anything he could get his hands on at me. His shots weren't precise, just poorly aimed targets at where I was in the moment. But, I can't believe this idiot is actually making me have to move. I couldn't stay in one spot like I used to.