Waves. As much as I love them, I have to admit, they're quite a pain. It doesn't really help that I'm plunging to my death right now in the gurgling mouth of saltwater- churning, desperate saltwater. Hmph, and that's not the worst of it. I've just been raped of all my innocence, my home has been destroyed, my reliant forests are burning down in flames, and in an urgent escape for refuge, the waves have just swallowed my raft.

Life is swell, isn't it?

Alright. I'll stop being such a sympathy-whore. Yup, that's right, moral guardians, I just cursed. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; Amen.

Well, anyway, if you really must know, this is how I came to be in this lovely situation.

It all began a few years back, when I was…13? Heh, I can't remember. But anyways, I was developing rather lady-like features.. as to say I was going through puberty. Sheesh, I didn't have a digger-dog's idea of what was going on with my body. I just thought I'd stay short, flat, and sienna. Guess I was wrong. Ick, this back story is being dragged out so darn far, just like the sea. The sea stretches on forever, just like this back story. And thus, my redundancy-o-meter is cranked up to eleven. Then the blind man picked up his ax and saw.

Okay, okay, enough with the lousy idioms. Let's just get on with this, shall we? While I'm wheezing for dear life, I'd love to share my past with you.

Ahem, gentlemen of the jury, please have a mere crumb of courtesy to hear me out! In the next set of events that I will be ever-so-nonchalantly self-forced to tell you, you will be faced with some things that aren't very, eh.. how do I put this- pleasing to the public eye. Big Brother is watching. And he is watching over our every move. So, I have to be careful as to what I say. And some things that come out of my mouth aren't very pretty. So, with that said, let's go on.

When I was little, I had no worries, because I had nobody. No one to tell me what to do, set the line between right and wrong. Basically I was a wild child. I didn't seem to mind that at all, though. In fact, I liked it that way. I usually had my head in the clouds, in my own little la-la land. Where everything was perfect. That's how I viewed the small tropical island in which I was the only inhabitant, as a blissful utopia just beckoning to be shared with the ones you love. Except there's no one there to love, let alone share it with.

Everything changed one day, when I witnessed a hard, massive object protruding into my sandy coastlines. What was this object in eye? What I later found out to be a ship, is what I was bowing down on my knees to as if it were some sort-of a God at that very moment. Well, what would you expect from little ol' isolated me and my made-up religion? I hadn't been introduced to Christianity, or as for more specific terms, Catholicism, until said person tainted my celibate shores. This person was Spain, he was the first male, or first person in that case, I had ever seen in my entire life. I was curious as to which who he was, what was he like? Did he have the same anatomy as me? Apparently yes, and no. Spain was, as I have already mentioned, a male. And anyone with common knowledge knows that male creatures of most species have something that females don't. I'm not going to get into that. Spain, however, was in fact a human being, and that was enough for me.

He and his ship stayed at port there for a while, and throughout this span of time, I learned quite a lot from him. He taught me his language, and as a bonus, another one, in which I am speaking right now. Astronomy? Check. Mathematics? Check. Literacy? Hey, how do you suppose I'm writing this, huh?

Soon, I started trading my sugar cane stalks for a nifty crop that Spain had titled tomatoes. They were completely new to me (and as a result, very delicious), as well as everything else Spain had been presenting to me in exchange for something else.

As strange as it is, I was falling head-over-heels for him. There was just something about him that made me feel…titillated. Maybe it was his luscious mahogany hair that oscillated nobly through the breeze? His mysterious chartreuse orbs that looked not into, but through my eyes and deep into my soul? His rugged tawny skin that had a risqué glow to it while glistening in the sunlight? Heh. See how gushy my description is right there? That's how I write when I'm in love. No, scratch that, puppy love. So suck it up and be a man.. uhm.. woman… yeah you get the point. Well, it just so coincidentally happened to be that right after I confessed my feelings to him, Spain fled from my island, and never came back again. I know he'll come back, I just know it! Boy, was I stupid. Stupid and blinded by love. Puppy love. (Redundancy strikes again! Tell the bishop, tell the priest, tell Miss Molly, who's deceased!) So, to sum it up, I eventually lost faith in him and became quite depressed. Cry me a damn river, you're thinking. I don't blame you, I'm thinking the same exact thing. As time passed, I learned to go on with my life without Spain. My relationship with him was just a short-lived fling, nothing more, nothing less. I'd get over it, and I did. Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.

Then, something else happened. How splendid. Indeed it is. Another set of those ships landed on the brink from abroad. This time around, I fled within the undergrowth that overlapped the beach. From my hiding place, I could get a good view of a pair of gentlemen, bickering gentlemen at that. They looked fair, their hair colors resembling the feathers of a canary. One of the men had unrealistically large eyebrows, the other had an awful stubble along his chin. Harmless gentlemen. My formerly forgiving, childish heart wanted to believe. Shall I reveal myself to them?

I had made my decision. Tip-toeing with a certain discreet aura that I was definitely trying to avoid (I didn't want to come off as overly cautious or anything!), I came into sight on the grains. Cue the awkward silence. They stared at me with beady eyes. At this point in my (slightly long) back story, I was far past the threshold between childhood and adolescence, physically speaking. That fact was the fine line which determined my fate, and let me take a second to inform you; it's not a very good one.

The gentlemen standing before me were known as England and France. They were not the most pleasant people I have met, (actually I'd prefer not even coming in contact with them at all) but when put together, it's like hell in a jumpsuit. They continued arguing. Not paying any mind to me. Now, women of the jury, with your earnest following eyes and your furrowed brows, what question could you possibly be conjuring? Oh, nevermind, I've already got it soiled in my thoughts. What were they quarreling about? Well, my fellow reader, it all has to do with a complicated little gig called land partitions. Both men wanted my island for themselves. Both men couldn't have it for themselves. And thus, they were bickering like an old married couple. Sooner or later, they ended their dispute and settled a (on their behalf) reasonable agreement: that they break up the island in half. France would own one of the halves, England would own the other. I didn't have a say in this at all, but does it look like I care? I'm as happy as a two-toed timber wolf with a bucket of tapir livers. Just fine!

In the first few months of this pre-apocalyptic situation- wait, what was that? You're getting fed up with my over-exaggerations? Oh, I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over my gluttonous intake of I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS SO GET OVER IT. Says it right on the tin. Now, let's throw this conversation back into bounds, 'cause we keep going off track. In those first few months, all was hunky-dory. England and France stayed to their own tracts of land, I avoided them at all costs, and there were animals singing in the forest. Alright, if you're smarter than the typical American fifth grader, you know that I was blatantly lying on the last line. If not, then jokes on you, dunce.

UNEXPECTED CHANGING POINT AHEAD.

You've been warned. War broke out. Between England and France. All of a sudden. It was harsh. Beige prose mode- off. The events that happened from here on are going to get slightly graphic- just saying. Turn back now if you don't think you can handle it…pansy.

There was gunpowder. Like black rain flaring through the air. It stained my skin, stained the beaches, stained the flora like a permanent marker. My corneas were clouded with distrust, dissonance, and all the other horrible things you can come up with using dis as a prefix. Not to mention the ear-popping turbulence of canons that are still, to this very moment, replaying in my mind like a broken record. Haunting my thoughts must've been France and England's main virtue during this pointless battle (I mean seriously, it was going absolutely nowhere!), 'cause they were pretty damn good at it. You'd think by then, things would be turning sunny-side up, with your optimistic, "the sun'll come out tomorrow" spirit. Let me inform you, my dear reader, it all goes downhill from here.

As midnight crept closer over the already black-smitten skies, I was Little Red Riding Hood, being tempted and teased like a play-thing by the Big Bad Wolf. Silly me, falling for his obviously ominous tricks. At the peak of Mt. Climax, he ate me out. That sly dog. During these course of events, I felt a certain sting in a sacred area of my body. The red cloak that veiled my hair was torn to shreds. It was gone forever, simply something I could never get back. That's when I woke up, to find my wrinkled clothes laying by my legs, and a thick crimson fluid on the mat I was sleeping on. Now, what could that possibly be, hmm? If you guessed pasta sauce, congratulations! You have now been crowned king (and for my feminist readers out there) or queen of the innocent-minded simpletons. If you guessed blood, I rationally think you're normal. Actually no, I don't think you're normal, I think you're just half-decent. Now let's move on. This couldn't have happened very long ago, there's still that scent. That foreign scent. Surely enough, I was right, it didn't happen very long before my discovery. How did I know this? The damp part of the shore- the part that the tide seems to casually cast upon, was tattered with footsteps, leading to the sea. The tide was low at that time, it had been that way since about 3:00 AM. The high tide will start to emerge at 9:00 AM. From what I can remember of the sun's point in the sky, I'd say I woke up somewhere along the lines of 5:15. If you haven't guessed already, England and France's ships were nowhere in sight, but they couldn't have left no earlier than 3:00. From the freshness of the footprints (they were barely eroded), I'm guessing they left at about four o'clock, or maybe 4:30.

I was so caught up in the moment, in the realization of what had happened to me during my deep slumber, that I didn't even notice the death bed that was expanding behind me. But then again, my patient reader, I'm sure it didn't notice me, either.

Next came my epiphany. The stages of said subject proceed as told;

Act 1: Uttermost silence. In this stage, you have your cliché stock character, interesting three dimensional character, or whatever your little heart desires taking a good amount of time attempting to take in all of the information being unfolded before them. Insert wide-eyed stare, with a pinch of dangling jaws. Presto! You have perfected this stage.

Act 2: Meticulous melodrama. Once your char-bear has soaked in the preserved information, they will most likely take a trip to the Angst Archipelago, but you can't take that seriously, now can you? It'll look like a blown up version of your short and simple no. Thus making it overly dramatic, to the point where it's so bad that it's good, you get a chuckle or two out of it, then it just..(insert tired sigh) eeeh, falls flat.

Act 3: Dastardly denial. After the accurate dosage of 'whiny depressed teenager who thinks his petty problems are pretty much the most horrible things in the world, and has no regard whatsoever to people living in poverty-struck villages with no food or purified water who would give all they have, which is probably not much, to have the life that this ever-so sad teenybopper has' your character will deny that they have any concern for what is to come out of this situation. They now believe that this problem that meant the world to them just one second ago, is now history. When really, deep inside, they still have that sorrowful stature that quickly bubbled up on the surface, but soon simmered down and resided in the core of their being.

Act 4: Acceptance. In the final stage, your character easily acknowledges the fact that what is done has been done, and if that's the way God wants it, then so be it. They will move on with their life. Whether for the good, or the bad. They will hopefully pull through and survive the apprehension that got them oh-so wound up.

You see that? That's me, being explanatory. Deal with it. And yes, if you're wondering, I did act directly as I have described in my stages of epiphany. So what? Alrighty, let's wrap this up. After I broke through those stages, my mind was like a bomb on the urge of igniting. Billions of mixed thoughts and emotions stirred up inside that ticking time bomb, about to burst out into oblivion. The vegetation on my island was torching at an alarming rate. The sky, in contrast to the lit forests, earned itself a gray composure. And to top it all off, the chill of dawn winds was rustling up my back, setting ablaze goosebumps along with mordant fear. This is exactly what I love to wake up to in the morning. Noble gentlemen of the jury, let me assist you with the first act of morality on my behalf. Morality- from my point of view, it wasn't those principles that your parents taught you as a kid, but what my mind, my soul, and my heart believed was right. Something that would get me out of this mess, like a survival step. So, I scurried over to my thatched hut (that was conveniently falling apart from coming in contact with the forest fire) , ducked for cover from any stray specks of red-hot ash, and leaped up to my toes for a split second, risking everything. Distraught reader, why did I do this? To get a hold of the loosely tied roof, which along with the rest of the hut, was collapsing. It was an act, if one were to say, of mirrored fate at the best. At first glance, this seemed like a risky, I don't want to see the outcome kind of idea. Per se, things turned out potentially great, and I actually made it to the swaying line separating land and water with roof in hand.

Here I was, securing the ties that were holding the roof together. My mat, my bloodstained mat, rested beside my thigh as I fussed with the rooftop. Was I really going to do what the jury is accumulating right now in their minds? Yes, my reader, yes I am. My body started to bob up and down along with the steady low tide. I could feel touches of sea foam tickling my toes, reminding me of those childhood memories I clung tightly to, wishing I could have them back, even for just a minute. My roof-raft idea was going well so far- well, so far. As I wandered out onto open water, the sea level wasn't the only thing that was rising. My anxiety started to increase, and so did my thirst for land. Like I mentioned earlier, the clouds were growing larger, and they were churning into a menacing gray. Bad signs. As if on cue, the waves had started stirring up. And let the fun begin.

Storms are like wives to husbands, you can't live wit' 'em, but you can't live wit' out them. They're a staple source of fresh water, but can cause hazardous effects when you're stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time. The crashing waves, the crowning source of my distressed feelings at that moment (besides all else that had happened), were now tipping and turning my raft. Eventually, as you've been guessing, the mouth of the sea became so violent, that it swallowed my raft whole. And now, here we are, right where we left off.

But just wait- I know you're thinking that I should probably be dead right now since it took you at least fifteen minutes to read that, and in that time, I would've drowned. Well, …no. As soon as you reached the fifth paragraph, I thrusted myself onto a rather large piece of wood from the debris of my raft, and was holding on for dear life. So technically, I'm A-OK. For now.


Author's Note: Hello, dear reader. Thank you so much for taking the time out of your day to read my story. You have no idea how much I appreciate that. I hope you've enjoyed it so far. Please review, I'd love to hear your thoughts on my work! If you're wondering who our protagonist is, well, let's just say that you'll know by at least the end of chapter three. Good luck! God bless!
P.S. Happy belated 4th of July! Sorry if I am a day late, I was out all day yesterday celebrating. By the time I got home, I was awfully exhausted. I went to the King Of Prussia mall for the first time yesterday! It was so awesome! (Well, of course it would be! If Prussia is included in something, it's automatically awesome!) I'm kind of angry though since it is the second largest mall in the USA, when it deserves to be the first! Stupid Mall Of America, trying to out-stage the awesome Prussia. (Wow, am I really ranting about malls?) Anyways, what did you, the reader, do for the 4th of July? (Don't worry, if you don't celebrate Independence Day, you don't have to answer that question.) Oh, and one more thing- have you heard the song Fairytale by Sara Bareilles? It's an amazing song, I recommend you give it a listen.
Disclaimer: Hetalia was created by and belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. The lyrics to Tomorrow were originally written by Martin Charnin. The Biblical origin of the Trinitarian Formula is in Matthew 28:19. The biblical origin of the Memorial Acclamation could not be traced down by me, if you know the origin please notify me and I'll include it right here. This story by all means belongs to me, Angelica Grillo.