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metamorphosis2010-01-21 05:48 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-01-21 05:48 pm
Entry tags:
29;
Title: Morning Cruel
Characters: France, Belgium, Prussia
Rating: PG-13
853 words.
Early next morning – is it next morning? She can’t recall the time anymore, being trapped in perpetual darkness – he visits her again, carrying a tray of something warm and mushy. He checks her bandages again, cleans her wounds, and nudges the tray towards her.
“Eat.”
She gives it a dubious look and, at a hard look from him, begins to eat. It’s too much for her after a while; she digs in, starving, an animalistic whine escaping her lips when she finds it gone. Prussia laughs, pats her on the back, and whispers ‘guten nacht’ softly into her ear.
She doesn’t know what he means until she finds herself drowsy, falling back onto the cot and vision fading along with the sliver of light that always announces the door being opened. Too tired to curse, she prays he’s bloodied up the next time she sees him.
And he is. He’s bandaged; blood and pus still leaking out through unclean wounds on his face and arms. A noticeable gash is above his left eye, and she laughs, only to be smacked across the face with the butt of a rifle. He sits down to tend to his own wounds first, grumbling first at how bad normal infantry was at medical procedures and then hissing as raw, infected gashes and bullet holes are exposed to the dust-filled air. She winces at the sorry state, but doesn’t offer to help.
He doesn’t ask.
She fakes eating the food he brings her, spitting it out when his back is turned and feigning sleep before he leaves. She finds out that good night isn’t the only thing he tells her; he whispers promises and secrets, so very sure she can’t remember or hear because she was supposedly asleep, knocked out by the sedatives in the disgusting gruel-like food.
Evidently they stopped a few meals later because as soon as she pretended to sleep, he howled in laughter and yanked her up by her hair. She struck back at him (he swears that it was a terrible idea to let her out of shackles) then and winces as he presses an ice pack to her cheek now. It was a terrible idea to try that, she muses, but it was better than being yanked around and jeered at like a French pig.
Her thoughts reflect to what he said (“He's too busy fighting off France and England on his end.”) and she grabs him by the sleeve before he leaves.
“Pruisen. How’s Franrijk?”
His face sets into a grim line and he shakes her off, laughing. She recoils against her cot, narrowing her eyes at his words and weary, hurt voice.
“You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
She does. The next time he returns, France is tossed into her cot, unconscious and bleeding. She rushes to his aid, ignoring Prussia when he tries to help. He stands idle by the door, licking his lips in (real? fake?) nervousness. When she’s through he leaves, yelling he’d come check on them later.
Later, France is awake and she’s planning, standing by the desk she hasn’t used until now and drawing lines, thinking to her borders and beyond. France watches with mild interest, too beat to care about escape. Prussia slips in and listens to the sound of her weary, determined voice.
“—and here is a break in the line. If England can just snap past here, the war will be over before it can really begin. Germany will surrender, you and I will have our homes back, and nothing like this will—“
“Will never happen again?”
She winces and turns an eye to the smug expression on his face. He laughs and steps over, nudging France aside to peer at the drawings.
“It’ll happen again unless you nip the problem in the bud. Crush a few things, right? Why the hell do you think we went through and ripped apart your countryside, Belgien? Yet your damn people are still fucking fighting German troops. Even if they’ve gotten and occupied France over there, England’s still holding up the front. Doing a good job of it too.”
She doesn’t know if he’s helping her, giving her such sweet bits of information. She wonders if they’re wrong. One look to his single red eye – the other’s bandaged, the gash above it still infected and leaking through the wraps – delivers her the truth and she only gives him a resigned nod, leaning back in her chair. She thinks, and then holds out her hand.
“I’m allowed to write letters aren’t I?”
“Of course not. What do you think this is? Summer camp?”
Prussia leaves the room, slamming the door and causing France to groan and complain in sharp French about his ringing head. She nudges him over and lies down next to him, curling her fingers against his chest and sighing. He’s asleep soon, and she’s softly on her way.
Characters: France, Belgium, Prussia
Rating: PG-13
853 words.
Early next morning – is it next morning? She can’t recall the time anymore, being trapped in perpetual darkness – he visits her again, carrying a tray of something warm and mushy. He checks her bandages again, cleans her wounds, and nudges the tray towards her.
“Eat.”
She gives it a dubious look and, at a hard look from him, begins to eat. It’s too much for her after a while; she digs in, starving, an animalistic whine escaping her lips when she finds it gone. Prussia laughs, pats her on the back, and whispers ‘guten nacht’ softly into her ear.
She doesn’t know what he means until she finds herself drowsy, falling back onto the cot and vision fading along with the sliver of light that always announces the door being opened. Too tired to curse, she prays he’s bloodied up the next time she sees him.
And he is. He’s bandaged; blood and pus still leaking out through unclean wounds on his face and arms. A noticeable gash is above his left eye, and she laughs, only to be smacked across the face with the butt of a rifle. He sits down to tend to his own wounds first, grumbling first at how bad normal infantry was at medical procedures and then hissing as raw, infected gashes and bullet holes are exposed to the dust-filled air. She winces at the sorry state, but doesn’t offer to help.
He doesn’t ask.
She fakes eating the food he brings her, spitting it out when his back is turned and feigning sleep before he leaves. She finds out that good night isn’t the only thing he tells her; he whispers promises and secrets, so very sure she can’t remember or hear because she was supposedly asleep, knocked out by the sedatives in the disgusting gruel-like food.
Evidently they stopped a few meals later because as soon as she pretended to sleep, he howled in laughter and yanked her up by her hair. She struck back at him (he swears that it was a terrible idea to let her out of shackles) then and winces as he presses an ice pack to her cheek now. It was a terrible idea to try that, she muses, but it was better than being yanked around and jeered at like a French pig.
Her thoughts reflect to what he said (“He's too busy fighting off France and England on his end.”) and she grabs him by the sleeve before he leaves.
“Pruisen. How’s Franrijk?”
His face sets into a grim line and he shakes her off, laughing. She recoils against her cot, narrowing her eyes at his words and weary, hurt voice.
“You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
She does. The next time he returns, France is tossed into her cot, unconscious and bleeding. She rushes to his aid, ignoring Prussia when he tries to help. He stands idle by the door, licking his lips in (real? fake?) nervousness. When she’s through he leaves, yelling he’d come check on them later.
Later, France is awake and she’s planning, standing by the desk she hasn’t used until now and drawing lines, thinking to her borders and beyond. France watches with mild interest, too beat to care about escape. Prussia slips in and listens to the sound of her weary, determined voice.
“—and here is a break in the line. If England can just snap past here, the war will be over before it can really begin. Germany will surrender, you and I will have our homes back, and nothing like this will—“
“Will never happen again?”
She winces and turns an eye to the smug expression on his face. He laughs and steps over, nudging France aside to peer at the drawings.
“It’ll happen again unless you nip the problem in the bud. Crush a few things, right? Why the hell do you think we went through and ripped apart your countryside, Belgien? Yet your damn people are still fucking fighting German troops. Even if they’ve gotten and occupied France over there, England’s still holding up the front. Doing a good job of it too.”
She doesn’t know if he’s helping her, giving her such sweet bits of information. She wonders if they’re wrong. One look to his single red eye – the other’s bandaged, the gash above it still infected and leaking through the wraps – delivers her the truth and she only gives him a resigned nod, leaning back in her chair. She thinks, and then holds out her hand.
“I’m allowed to write letters aren’t I?”
“Of course not. What do you think this is? Summer camp?”
Prussia leaves the room, slamming the door and causing France to groan and complain in sharp French about his ringing head. She nudges him over and lies down next to him, curling her fingers against his chest and sighing. He’s asleep soon, and she’s softly on her way.