So, trigger warning for self harm

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In that sense, you could say England had a lovely week. Not a wink of sleep. He had even resorted to alcohol and began drinking himself to sleep. It would work, but the amount needed increased every time, as well as he would wake up in the morning with a splitting headache, or worse, a migraine. Plus, he threw up the first few times.

Today England took a step forward, or rather, backwards. He was drinking his tea, nothing out of the ordinary, when he turned his head to the left. He wished with all his heart that he didn't, for once his eyes landed on the reflection of him in the mirror that stood there, a maniacal rage grew in him and he hurled his cup at it, breaking the cup and cracking the mirror.

He let out a yell of frustration, tugging at his unkempt, dirty hair. It was one of those moments when he wished the world would just do him a favor and kill him already. His fuming mind didn't register the message the cracked mirror was sending;

Broken.

England was broken beyond easy repair.

He stumbled over to the mirror and dropped to his knees in the shattered glass. He picked up a shard, staring at it. All he saw was his bloodshot, once bright, emerald eye, but that was enough to drive the urge that lived off his self loathing. So he brought the shard to his exposed arm and cut.

What was the point of living? Cut.

Everyone hated him. Cut.

He was alone again. Cut.

He always was and always would be. Cut.

America didn't care. Cut.

France didn't care. Cut.

Scotland didn't care. Cut.

Ireland didn't care. Cut.

Wales didn't care. Cut.

Hell, even Canada desperately wanted to be with France and not him. Cut.

But that wasn't surprising; No one cared about him. Cut.

And to top it off, he was the worst guardian there was. Cut.

And the worst brother. Cut.

And the worst friend. Cut.

Just the worst person in general. Cut.

He was the black sheep of Europe, wasn't he? Cut.

Never good enough. Cut.

Never would be. 

Just as he about to slash his pale skin again, the shard fell from his now limp, thin, fingers, and he collapsed, likely from blood loss. Being an immortal nation meant he couldn't die, but that didn't mean he couldn't get sick, hurt, or even fall into a coma, the last of which happens if a nation gets mortally wounded. England had actually been lucky he didn't slip into one, although he wouldn't exactly use the term lucky.