Chapter 1: Locked Away
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. If I did, my life would be complete :D
A group of young men and women walked down a dark, stone corridor, Bars and thick metal doors surrounding them on either side. They were led by a man in a long gray coat, who spoke softly while pointing into different rooms.
"-some of the worst cases of mental deterioration in the world reside here. This ward is home to some of the most extreme cases of schizophrenia, and-"
The group stopped in front of Cell 145.
"This is a special case that popped up a few months ago. This man has a dangerous case of schizophrenia, to the point of violent outbursts at the mention of it. Take a look students," the grey coated man said, motioning to the bars.
Inside was a bleak room with worn, tattered padding on the walls. A single cot sat in the corner, a toilet in the other. A rusty sink stood next to it, dripping water slowly. A man lay back on the cot, staring blankly at the ceiling. His blonde hair was messy and standing on all ends. His face was young and sported large, thick eyebrows. Beneath them, bright green eyes were shining brightly, sparkling from the tiny lightbulb fixed in the wall. His body was slender and he appeared malnourished, and he wore thin sweatpants. He did not wear a shirt.
"His name is Arthur Kirkland, a former member of some top secret government agency. He was 'discontinued' by his fellow agents."
The students scribbled on their notepads, before the man in the coat continued down the hall. One of the students stayed back and peered into the room at the mysterious Arthur Kirkland. The skinny man seemed to notice, and raised his head with a curious look. Then, a dark look crossed his face, and he sent a rude hand gesture at the young student. The kid laughed and returned the gesture before leaving the man alone.
Arthur sighed. None of those kids knew about him. He was a respected country, England. He was there bloody country, after all. So, here lay England, at the lowest moment of his life. Thrown aside and forgotten in a dirty asylum, miserable and mistreated. Of course, who would believe him if he said they didn't treat him right? Nobody, not any of the few visitors he still got. Really, the only ones who came to see him were Germany, America, and France. Everyone else had given up on him. It wasn't his fault they couldn't see his magical friends! They were as real as America's bloody alien, dammit! England shot up and began to shout and curse obscenities at his captors, slamming his thin, bony hands against the padded door. Rage filled his heart, it clouded his senses. It didn't take more than a minute for several uniformed guards to burst in and slam him to the floor. They wielded short, thick clubs, ready to beat him into place if necessary. He struggled uselessly against them, and they forced him to the bed. They locked leather straps into place over his wrists and ankles. He tried desperately to fight against the bonds. One of the guards towered over him.
"Goodnight Mr. Kirkland," he growled, before slamming a short club into the nation's stomach. His breath hitched as pain spread through him, before he felt a sting in his arm. A haze clouded over his eyes, powerful sedation coursing through his blood. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell asleep.
XxXxXxXxXx
New York City always seemed the same to France. It was so busy, obnoxious, and loud. A stream of nearly unmoving cars clogged the streets in thick, bulky groups. Most of them were ugly yellow taxis. Men and women walked in a rush this way and that, somehow organized. The street smelled of salty French Fries and cheap gasoline. It was too much to bear. France quickly made his way into the grand, luxurious hotel along a busy street. Sure, it was nice, but it was classic American. He made his way towards the elevator, when his cell phone vibrated annoyingly in his pocket. He answered irritadedly.
"Bonjour, Francis speaking."
"French dude, you're late, and Germany told me to call you!"
Alfred's loud voice screeched through the phone so loudly that France drew the phone from his ear and cursed under his breath.
"I'm in the elevator now, tell Germany to calm himself," he said, and slapped his phone shut.
He pressed the button to the top floor, and leaned back against the wall, shutting his eyes and breathing heavily. Under his arm he carried two folders, one for his notes and one for Arthurs. Ever since he had been taken, Francis had diligently copied all of England's notes. He made the time, and he truly felt horrible over the whole mess. He delivered the notes personally every week to Arthur. His former rival was a mere shell of what he used to be. His face was shallow and he looked very tired. He didn't insult France anymore, only thanking him and forcing a small smile when he sent his regards to the others. It made France want to cry for him, or at least hug him, though the guards wouldn't even allow that. They claimed that Arthur was 'dangerous.' Bullshit in France's opinion, but there was nothing he could do. All the tests had proven that England really was schizophrenic. It was a sad thing.
The elevator stopped at the top floor with an elegant ding, and France stepped out into the brightly lit hall. He entered the conference room and was greeted with silent eyes. Normally, things were chaotic, and loud. However, the other nations were completely quiet as France entered. He was aware of the stares he was receiving, though he did not really care. Everyone felt as if they were treading on thin ice around him, especially careful not to mention England around him. It was quite a sore subject.
"Let's get on with the meeting then," Germany said sternly, and France sat at his spot near Italy.
He glanced over at the young, carefree nation, and Italy cracked a small smile and patted his hand. France wanted to smile, but he just couldn't. He touched Italy's hand gently as a sign of thanks, then turned his attention to Germany. He had begun his usual speech on world trade. France listened more intently than usual, scribbling notes down onto official documents. After each set of notes, he flipped to England's folder, copying the notes again in a fluent cursive. When the meeting was over and everyone had filed out, France stayed behind and copied the notes into England's folder. As he finished, he felt a hand on his shoulder. America.
"Amerique, have you been waiting for me?" France asked, not that surprised.
"Yeah bro. I just wanted you to make sure you give this to Iggy, alright?" America said optimistically, handing France a small box of England's favorite Earl Grey Tea.
It was a very kind, yet very depressing gesture. France knew exactly what happened to this items for the patients in London. They were labeled as 'contraband,' taken to a furnace room, and burned. France had seen it before, in times of war. He had visited these places to question prisoners and insane soldiers, and knew the procedure. England would never see the gift from America, and the young American was oblivious. France smiled softly.
"I'll get it to him, don't worry. He'll be very grateful mon ami."
America smiled happily.
"Thanks France! Tell him I'll come around next week!"
"Sure. I'll let him know."
France shuffled his and England's notes neatly into their respective folders. He sighed and stood, heading for the door. His plane would take off in an hour, and he would be visiting Arthur when he arrived in London. He always grew depressed before his visits. Last time, Arthur had had his wrists bound. France had complained to the doctors, but they had roughly reassured him that Arthur was prone to violent episodes, and that it was law he be restrained.
"Don't worry about it France, the restraints don't hurt. It's just a precaution," Arthur had said, smiling weakly.
France had grown to hate the visits, absolutely despise them. He wanted to see England, to give Alfred some kind of comfort in that... place. But it was becoming so painful to watch England wither away, his mind deteriorating, as he saw things. When they were young, he knew that the small, foul tempered nation had talked to his imaginary friends, but what kid didn't? Then, he still was occasionally caught talking to them, all the way up until present day. Throughout history, Arthur had seen things others hadn't, and it wasn't until a year ago that his own parlaiment had labeled him as a schizophrenic and locked him away in an insane asylum. It made Francis sick inside, and everyone knew it. Who knew that the absence of the Brit would be so devestating on them all? Now, even Germany missed the constant bickering and fighting. They all did.
XxXxXxXxXxXx
England slept very fitfully. He had the same dream, again and again. He was riding a dragon, Captain Hook at his side, and below, burning houses and screams echoed through the night. People were running from there homes, their bodies caught in the blaze, smouldering and crumbling into ash as the dragon spat fire down on them. England could do nothing but watch. On the horizon, the flag of each country stood tall, casting shadows upon the blazing scenery. One by one, each flag burst into flames, his last. Voices filled his head, though he couldn't understand them. They were only whispers after all.
England's eyes shot open and he thrashed wildly at the hands attacking him. His chin was caught and he stared up in fear into cold, grey eyes. His doctor's eyes.
"Settle down, Mr. Kirkland, settle down," the doctor said in a stern, powerful voice.
Everything about the doctor was grey. His eyes, his hair, his coat. Even his skin seemed to have a greyish tint to it, though it may have just been the many grey bricks surrounding them.
"Another nightmare? We'll have to up your dosage again," the doctor said, his voice laced with humor.
"No! I don't need that stuff in my blood. God knows what you're really pumping into me," England said dangerously, drawing his hand to his chest and nursing his wrist, which had been rubbed raw by the straps.
"Everyone takes the medication Mr. Kirkland, you are no different. Schizophrenia is a powerful disease, it should be treated with the utmost precaution-"
"I'm not bloody insane! Half the people in this place are perfectly healthy, and you know it!" England yelled.
"Perhaps it was a mistake to unbind you today Mr. Kirkland. A Mr. Bonnefoy is here to see you, but it appears his journey was in vain..." the doctor trailed off, his voice a boring drawl.
England's eyes widened.
"Francis? Take me to him!"
The doctor chuckled.
"There's our chipper Arthur. Come now, let's get you to the visiting room."
The visiting room was completely white, with a chair in the center, and a bland, uncomfortable couch against the wall. England waited in the hard, metal chair, which was screwed into the floor. Soon, the door opened with a clang, and Francis, flamboyant and half-smiling, hovered into the room and swept England into a hug. They stayed there for a full minute or two, and England didn't mind at all. Normally, if France were to even suggest touching him, he would begin screaming and cursing the man, then a fist fight would ensue. Not anymore. England was just happy to have some form of contact with anyone, and France was very inviting. Any physical contact that England was used to were the cold, intruding hands of his doctor, or the violent hands of guards wielding there vile clubs. This was a rare occasion, and England accepted the warm hug fully. Francis drew back and smiled.
"Oh Angleterre, it's been so long. Are they treating you alright in here? What's that?" He asked, narrowing his eyes at fresh wraps on Arthur's wrists.
"Oh, nothing. I've been having nightmares, and it is absolutely necessary," he tried to wave it off.
France looked appalled.
"They have been tying you down? Animals!" He said, glaring at the door.
"Really France, I'm fine. They make me comfortable here, it's alright. I'll be out soon."
Every last bit of this sentance was a lie. Of course he was not fine. He was not comfortable. The doctors injected him with sedatives if he even displayed emotion, and the guards would hit him if he acted up. Also, he had been saying he would be out soon for just over a year, and the doctor had specifically told him personally that with his condition, five years in this place would be a blessing. The only hope England had left was in these visits.
"As long as you are comfortable mon ami. I brought the notes from the conference. Amerique says he'll be in next week, and everyone misses you. Germany thinks you should eat more, and Italy says he thinks about you everyday. Even Russia says he misses your adorable face, though I was a bit unsure on that last one. I was to busy eyeing the pipe strapped to his leg," France said, chuckling softly.
England smiled a bit at this, but it didn't last long. He would never tell France, but the doctor always took the notes. He had them sent to England's Prime Minister, who filled them out and sent them back here. England never even got to lay eyes on the notes that France worked so hard on every week, making it perfect for Arthur. The thought made England want to sob, but he didn't.
"The front desk should have the notes from last week, I've filled them out accordingly. It's... It's good to see you Francis," England said, his lip trembling slightly.
He bit it before France noticed.
"Mon petite lapin, it is wonderful to see you as well. I know these times are tough, but you'll get through it, okay?"
"Yeah. It will be okay."
England hated to lie.
A/n: This is my first real attempt at a dark fic! It will be multi-chaptered, so, R&R! :D
