March 11
"It'll be fun," America had said.
"We'll learn about history," Britain had said.
"We can look at the Fukushima reactor," Russia had said.
"Why," Italy mused to himself in a daze, "did I ever listen to them?"
If they hadn't gone, everything would be fine. Japan would be alive, unbroken. Germany would be here. Dreams would not have been shattered. Brothers would not have turned against brothers. And Italy wouldn't be alone in this gray, foggy hell, sitting amongst his dead friends' remains.
He should have never agreed to go. Should never have entered that church, opened that book, read those words. Should have stayed home. Like the coward he was. Then he wouldn't be here, cold and wet and scared, and singing that cruel mockery of a song.
"Hey, hey papa, could I have some wine? Hey, hey mamma, hey, hey mamma..."
He'd never had a mother, or a father. Never had some loving woman nurture him from childhood, send him to school, see him graduate. Of course he wanted a mother...
"It doesn't matter what I do, I'll never forget..."
How could he forget? There was nothing to remember. Nothing to come.
"That taste of bolognese, it won't get out of my head."
The last meal he'd eaten in his house, his lovely, safe, familiar home.
"Draw a circle, there's the Earth."
A circle? More like a sodden heap of bodies and blood.
"Draw a circle, there's the Earth."
The Earth? Where? All its countries were slumped together in the remains of some factory in Japan.
"Draw a circle, there's the Earth."
Italy drew a misshapen circle in the air with a limp, pale finger.
"I am Italy..."
Why me?