TRIGGER WARNING!!! IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THE MENTION OF SELF HARM, ANoREXIA, OR DEPRESSION TURN BACK NOW! this imagine deals with America being depressed and Anorexic. I am not trying to romacify depression, I know it doesn't work that way I am not trying to say it does please if you are sensitive to this subject don't read this, if you are depressed and are not getting help at the moment find it, you deserve to feel okat again, you deserve to be happy. If anyone needs to talk to someone who will be able to keep everything to themselves feel free to dm me I will gladly listen to anything you have to say.
Anyway on with the imagine.
Alfred didn't always think he was fat, or that he was ugly, or that he deserved to be hated like he thought he was. Everyone always said how much they hated him, Arthur, Fransis, Cuba, Mexico, and so many others. Arthur always told him he was fat, told him he needed to loose weight, Fransis told him the same thing. So did Mathew, Feliciano, Ludwig, Yao, and once again so many others. At first it didn't bother him, he didn't listen to it, but it became to much. He stopped eating, first it was just not eating burgers or McDonald's for lunch and eating something else, but that's didn't do much in his eyes. He stopped eating lunch all together. After a few months he skipped dinner too. He would eat a small breakfast and then he wouldn't eat anything after that, if he did he would throw it back up. He had a system, eat as little as possible for breakfast and if he ended up eating anything else the rest of the day he would get rid of it.
Now he was skinnier than he had ever been, so skinny it wasn't healthy, but he still thought he was fat, he still thought he needed to loose weight.
On top of him being fat he also became overly paranoid, every time someone whispered he immediately thought he was being talked bad about, which lowered his self esteem by a lot. Of course no one noticed because Alfred was an amazing actor, able to make everyone think he was perfectly fine. No one saw the scars on his wrists, or the burns on his skin, or the pain behind his eyes. No one knew how skinny he was, no one except Ivan.
Ivan could tell that every time Alfred smiled it didn't quite reach his eyes, he could tell that as his birthday grew nearer his eyes grew duller. He knew that look in his eyes, Ivan used to have that look in his eyes when he was little, when he was alone. Ivan didn't know how to confront the American though.
The day of Alfred's birthday was the hardest day for the American. He invited everyone like always but he didn't expect anyone to show up. The party wasn't until around 2 o'clock, he sat in the bathroom with the door closed.(WARNING SELF HARM I'LL SAY IT AGAIN IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THIS LEAVE NOW OR SKIP THIS PART) In his hand he held his favorite pocket knife, he pressed it to his wrist as tears streamed down his face. He hated his birthday, there was so much food everywhere and he couldn't eat any of it. He also felt like everyone just pretended to like him and show up. He sliced his wrist several times, the blood pooling at the mouth of each cut. The red liquid ran down his arm and dripped onto the floor. He wasn't listening to the outside world, he didn't hear the knock at the door, or the doorbell, or the voice calling his name. He made more cuts, telling himself that he wouldn't be missed.
Ivan knocked on the door, he knew the party didn't start for a few hours but he wanted to see Alfred to make sure he was alright. The Russian found himself worrying about Alfred all the time. He had actually grown feelings for the American, intimate feelings. He wanted to confess, one to get it off his chest and two so Alfred had a shoulder to cry on when he needed to. When his knock went unheard he rang the doorbell. When that was again ignored he checked the doorknob to see if it was unlocked, it was. He let himself in and set the bouquet of red, white and blue roses on the counter. He called for Alfred, "Fredka?" He looked around the house.
