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A/N: Yeah, this is gonna be crappy. It kinda really portrays how I feel and what I really want to do. So, uh, yeah, enjoy.

Prussia lay on his bed, thinking about everything that he had lost throughout the past while listening to "Blue Lips" on repeat. It was so unlike him, but he couldn't push down how he really felt any longer. He hardly ever let his emotions choke him like this—it just hurt too much. He had trained himself to smile through his tears, laugh through his pain, fight the depression with his non-existent awesomeness.

It would be better if you just died.

Prussia's mind told him this every day. It gave him nightmares, made him cry, tempted him end everything. After all, was anything worth if he amounted to nothing in the end?

At first, he had drowned his feelings in countless bottles of beer, but he soon stopped drinking for the sake of supressing his depression. As he sobered up, the darkness and weakness came back along with overwhelming guilt from neglecting his emotions. He rolled onto his stomach and picked up the knife he kept next to his bed and rolled up one of his sleeves and made a few cuts. Blood dripped down his arms, blood soaking his uniform's sleeves.

He didn't want this anymore. He was done now.

Prussia sat up and pulled a gun out from under his bed and cocked it before pressing it against the side of his head.

Three, two, one...

He pulled trigger, and fell backwards.

The almighty Prussia was dead.

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