DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA OR THE WORLD OR ALCOHOL.
Day 10.
He never thought it would lead to this.
A gun, an empty bottle, and a picture of his half-assed, jerkoff pathetic excuse of an older brother with a couple bullets lodged in his skull and a small blade embedded in the empty cavity where the picture's heart should've been. He'd manually cut off the bottom half of the picture with his Swiss Army knife because he was pretty sure that his sibling didn't have the balls to begin with.
It was bright out. He never woke up when it was this bright. He woke the others for training at seven or so, not at ten when the sun had long risen.
He had fallen asleep in a chair, staring at his jerk of a relative's photograph on the wall. Now he just sat there with gun in hand.
"Agh, son of a bitch," he grumbled, feeling the cold metal pistol against his palm. A Walther P38, the wooden butt of the gun weathered from overuse. It was strangely light today, usually it felt heavier.
Well, usually that gun carried a lot of baggage. And not just cartridge after cartridge of extra bullets. But the lives of thousands, maybe millions, maybe more. The lives that were ended and gone by his hand.
He killed them all. What kind of a human was he?
On sheer impulse, he wrapped his hand around the weapon, placed his right index on the trigger, and let rip a sure-fire bullet that lodged itself right between Prussia's eyes. The picture flapped lamely against the board before settling back, only now there was a centimeter-thick hole where the man's nose should have been.
Now his is a life I'd be happy to take.
Germany groaned and grabbed his head, feeling the deepest reaches of sobriety not for the first time in ten days. Yes, he was stone cold sober. He was a reversed kind of man, most of the time—alcohol was what kept him sane, and yet sanity was what he ran on. Order was his passion, rationale his fuel. And without a little bit of the good old lager, along with plenty of the strong shit, he was just as sober as any normal man. And that could kill him on a good day.
Unfortunately for the leader of the Axis Powers, today was a very, very bad day, tossed in as the terrible climax of a series of ten very, very bad days.
A sigh escaped him as he ran his fingers through his blonde hair and looked towards the skewed mirror on the wall. His hair was a mess, a sight that would scare even his boss. Strands were falling into his eyes and obscuring his forehead—a look that quite a few people said made him look centuries younger. And just as per usual, the dark shadows under his eyes were still there. When were they ever not? They were to him like white flags were to Italy or Italy himself was to Germany; no amount of conditioning and phony cures would get rid of either.
Exhausted, Germany threw himself back into his chair with a whoosh. It was too hot for Germany here, he didn't know why. Was there a fan here, anything? He had already taken off his jacket, which was a sign that he was certainly not feeling up to par with his usual self. And he certainly wasn't about to sit around his room shirtless. He was far above that.
Instead, he channeled all this hatred and fury and the damn insufferable heat into one deathly glare at his brother's picture.
His eyes narrowed as he met the photograph's motionless stare. "And what are you looking at, Prussia?"
Odd. His own incredibly strong accent only hit him when he didn't have liquor dulling his brainwaves. He had forgotten just how intense his German accent could be sometimes.
He lifted the gun once more and squeezed off another round, firing shell after shell through Prussia's head. But that wasn't enough—his free hand locked around the MP40 reclining under his chairside pile of dirty magazines as he placed the pistol back in his pocket and fired the weapon in his hands. Fast, furious, deadly, orderly, the line of bullets swerved around the wall, narrowly missing a letter from Italy and drawing a cavity-filled smile across Prussia's already gloating face.
A click. Another click. Empty.
"Raagh!" He stood and tossed the submachine gun at the wall, where it ripped the picture off the tack keeping it up and settled inert on the ground. Nothing made him angry like holes in the wall. Reminded him too much of those damn Swiss and all their disgusting filthy cheese.
Some unseen force of existence itself made him reach for the Walther again. And he studied the curves and edges of the beautifully crafted weapon, and that's when he made his very rash decision.
The gun carried lots of baggage today, and yet it was light as a feather. So, just so it could suffer as much as he was, why not add the baggage of Germany? Why not pay the price of his life?
His soul was in Herr Walther's hands.
The grip of moderation was too much for a man born of the Fatherland to bear.
He was done.
And he placed the gun to his forehead and set his finger on the trigger, the gunshot resounding in his ears like a cannon shot just before the last person he'd ever expect to see came screaming through the door.
Heyo! Just a little idea I thought up when I was supposed to be sleeping. Not sure exactly how it'll go, but expect a chapter at any random point in time. Like a month from the next, or a day, or twenty minutes, or a year. I dunno. Well, Ciao!