For as long as that wall-
that dreaded,
horrible,
terrifying,
no good,
very bad Berlin Wall-
had been put up,
Gilbert Belishimdt has been dead.
America said that,
He can't let him live.
That Prussia was charged with mass murder,
genocide,
and crimes against humanity.
The thing was,
it was all my fault.
And he took the blame.
All
my
fault.
And the only reasonable punishment for his crimes,
would be death.
I shivered.
All my fault.
My brother's going to be killed.
And I can't do anything about it
I can't stop it.
I can't even show my signs of sadness.
I was at the verge of tears.
Alfred also said that
he would be executed
in the Soviet Union at dawn.
He invited me to come.
I guess he thought I disliked my brother...
...
I didn't come.
I haven't seen him,
in 28 years.
Where is he?
In Heaven, I hope.
But this morning I realised,
he was not in Heaven.
For he was in an abandoned alleyway
in the middle
of Berlin.
Beaten.
Bloody.
Broken.
Alive.
Alive.
Most likely not well,
but alive.
It went through the air
like smoke
from the bombs
that fell
on the day Gilbert
died.
Leaving ashes
and rubble.
And nothing else.
Like him.
Alive,
Prussia.
Prussia,
dying.
In pain
curled up like a little dog
on the ground,
shaking,
torn.
But alive.
I picked up my bleeding, dying brother.
And all the colours-
the pink flowers,
the green puddles,
the silver moon-
all wash into dull red mud.
And I can vision her here,
cradling him,
whispering Italian lullabies to hush him,
telling me,
it isn't my fault.
It isn't me
who leaves traps for innocent people,
or drops bombs
that fall
like dead crows.
I took him home.
I didn't know
what to do with him.
He didn't look at me.
He didn't say a word.
he was limp.
His eyes were closed.
And that's how it stayed
for the entire time
while I tried talking to Romana.
Her booming, almost pissy but confused Italian accent
rumbling over mine on the spreaker.
And then I hear a thump.
I look over.
The Prussian was on the ground,
a pool of blood by his head.
...
I forgot.
Quickly,
I came to Prussia and tried to tend to his wounds for the moment,
coming to a conclusion with Chiara to take him to the hospital.
And I would meet her and Italy there,
I hung up the phone.
I help my brother,
who was unconscious,
dying,
and bleeding.
The blood reminded me of a red ribbon.
Here,
Gilbert said, handing me a ribbon,
a long time ago,
when I was only a kid.
Take this,
he said.
Take this and tie it to your wrist.
I did as I was told .
Now look,
look at my hand.
The ribbon was tied around his wrist as well.
You'll never leave me,
you'll never betray me,
you won't forget me,
as long as we have the strong bond,
that this represents.
Okay?
I nodded.
Rain.
Rain.
Dropping like bullets
from the sky.
Rain.
It was on the hospital window.
...It's been awhile,
since that day
that Prussia came into my life again.
The doctors won't tell me anything about Gilbert.
Romana told them not too.
For my sake.
Rain.
I look to my brother.
He was motionless.
He was always motionless.
I haven't seen him open his eyes at all.
Then Chiara came in,
and told me it was time to go.
She had to pry me from my seat.
Rain.
The sky was gray.
When I got home that evening,
after being at the hospital with Prussia for hours,
Feliciana rushed around me
and asked if Prussia was OK.
She doesn't like seeing people in pain,
so she doesn't come with.
Fine fine fine!
I told her.
He's fine!
Later on Romana asked me
why I said that
when it was obviously not true.
And I told her,
without hesitation,
that
I don't want to tell people
that I am weak.
And that Prussia is not okay,
and that I do sit in a hospital room with him
alone for six hours
and watch him not move at all.
Or why his head is still oozing blood.
Or why whenever the doctor shines a light in his eye
his pupils don't dilate.
Or why he makes those sounds,
those sounds no one should ever deserve to make.
Or why my heart is so low,
that I have believed to crucifix myself.