Author's Notes -
Sorella Kennet: Oh. Nisi's asleep right now. Damn. ANYWAYS. I'll edit this with her A/N when she gets on or something. Hey guys~! It's the Toast Sorellas! . . Not exactly all 8 of them, but a certain three that'll be working on this side-story to Pistol on my Pillow! We were bored, the Sorellas were gone all day, and we had to do something to get our writing inspiration up! So, we present to you. . "Las Estrellas!" A side story featuring our "Star" Trio: Texas (who belongs to me), America (who is roleplayed by Rupsha), and Turkey~! (Nisi, teehee C:) We hope you enjoy the side story written by the three of us, because obviously, everyone's in school and it sucks that we can't write anymore. RUPSHA. DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY.. :C
Sorella Rupsha: Hey, what's up? Well, I haven't forgotten POMP, none of us have, it's just on a hiatus until Christmas or so. Until then, this little tragedy right here is gonna keep us occupied. Before you go on, I'm warning you - there's going to be some serious intense shit. Perhaps not in this chapter but you knowww. And yeah, I'll be specializing in our favorite American. So. Have fun, homies. -thumbs up-
Axis Powers: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya
Childish giggles.
Toddler-like giggles.
They all came from the female who walked outside the house's door. Barefoot toes brushed against the puddle that was on the front step, but she didn't care. She coughed; crimson orbs looking towards the sky that was shrouded in a mysterious gray that made the atmosphere grow to be quite ominous. She looked to the left, then to the right, sniffling while she dashed towards the oak tree that had a branch locked together with a rope that contained a tire that was fit for a monster truck slightly swinging from the small breeze that came their way.
Her dashes came to an abrupt stop once she jumped into the hole that was large enough to allow both her arms and feet to dangle out the tire. Her legs bent forward, pushing backward in order to get her whole body to move against the wind. A sigh came from her mouth; nothing felt right to her - not anymore, anyway.
She could've sworn she felt a raindrop hit her nose, so she looked up and pushed her hands towards the sky. Yes, it was. It was hitting her palms and the water was slipping down to the wrists before falling to the grassy field. Her life couldn't have been this dull; it shouldn't have been this dull.
When was her brother going to come home?
Moist gravel crunched under a set of feet, not too far away from her. Perhaps a block or so. The streets glimmered, sleek with mud and rain water. It was a young adult. A crisp breeze swept through him, smacking flush against the skin of his pinkened throat. A matted mass of dirty blonde hair was at the top of his head, browning at the tips, a single clump of hair shooting up at the sky much like a cowlick.
A chill slid down his spine. Washington was cold this time of year. The bite of the air was vicious and icy. Given how much time he spent in it, he was sure to catch one hell of a cold. The blonde quickly shoved the thought out of his head.
Now wasn't the time to fall ill, not with Amarilla being in the grody state she was. His little sister had coughed up a storm the night before, and had thrown up until there was no more than a shredded mess of stomach acid.
Alfred winced, his lips twisting into a frown. He had to stay strong for her, if not anyone else. And there quite literally wasn't fucking anyone else. His book bag was slung over his shoulder and a plastic bag containing both groceries and bottled medicine hung thickly from one fist.
He navigated his way through their neighborhood - an obscene sight. This part of the state was everything but elite, polished. It was terrible. Odds and ends of filth and trash littered the sidewalks and the rats squeaked menacingly in the dark alleys.
Alfred stopped short before taking the turn that led to his residence, discreetly spitting the cigarette that drooped from the corner of his mouth into the ground and crushing it with the sole of his shoes before proceeding.
"Ugh, if I have to go back to that fucking pharmacy and face that Ukrainian chick-"
His voice, gritty from all the energy he previously exerted cracked into silence when he took in the sight of Amarilla swinging from the tire that he fastened to the tree trunk on her birthday a year back.
Alfred blinked.
"Amarilla Salinas, where in the fuck do you get the goddamn balls to get out here in the rain while nursing a hundred and three degree fever?" He barked into the air and took long, fast strides towards her. He drew a curious gaze or two from the surrounding houses but he couldn't see past the fury emanating from him in waves right then as he took a fierce hold of her wrist and jerked her off the tire, and then stomping over to the porch.
A hand flew to the knob and Alfred jammed the key into the hole, swerving it to the right and then roughly kicked the door open.
"No, seriously, kid, tell me. I'm curious. Tell me that you don't give a shit about me working my ass off all day and you know, walking all the way to the pharmacy to get you some Tylenol, when I don't have a car and then having to go get lunch for you, because obviously, my appetite ran away ages ago!"
"Adnan! You're next."
"Evet, sir."
"Speak English, please. This is Seattle, Washington of The United States of America. Not Turkey." The chef's voice was filled with such false malignance, it made the other cringe.
The rusted metal bowl was given to him, and the Turk smelled the aroma of the squashed corn after he took it hesitantly. It was absolutely disgusting. No, even worse. The Turk didn't want this horrible goo in his mouth. No, it was disturbing. It was unlike the food he cooked before.
When was the last time he cooked?
". . . It was. .back then, wasn't it. . For—"
"Break's over! Go to your instructed rooms!" A loud, boisterous voice hollered, the vapid theme of the room suddenly turning into caution and vengeance. It only felt like a mere 3 seconds to the Turk; however, it was actually an hour.
"Time passes by fast when yer havin' fun, ain't it?" He muttered, just like every day for the last week. The Turk went to his room carelessly, and the guard gave him a grunt, locking the door with the key, and walked off.
The hypothermia-loving cellar consumed the Turk again, and it left him in the shadows.
"Why did ya do this ta me. . ?" He said aloud. "Why?"
The little female squeaked, feeling a small pain in her wrist like she normally did nowadays. It wasn't that Alfred was intentionally trying to hurt her, but he was trying to discipline her and get her ready for the real world - if she had any time to get ready. She had her hands behind her back, her tiny head lowering so she couldn't see his face anymore. She muttered a tiny apology, knowing the exact reason as to why she went outside. .
. . But at the same time, not wanting to reveal the reason for it.
"I-I just wanted ta . . . play. . ." She muttered in a tiny whisper, wincing and wiping her eyes with the grubby, rain watered palms that she didn't bother cleaning up as soon as she got inside. She refused to let tears touch the cheeks and corners of her face, only because that was something she wouldn't appreciate showing to anyone else.
"I just…wanted ta play on the swing, Alfred. . ." A whimper came from Amarilla's mouth, the child's body trembling in slight fear, but nothing she couldn't get over in such a short amount of time. The American slowly reached over and took the bag from him - albeit, a bit heavy because she wasn't as strong as other girls could be - looking inside and noticing the medicine in the tiny white bottle before taking a small look at Alfred. She just wrapped a little bow on the top of the bag handles.
"I'm sorry. . ."
It was like a phrase that must be repeated like a Robot's log of interactions with the world.
"I'm sorry. . ."
It was like a squeaky toy that made the same exact noise every. Push.
"I-I'm sorry, Alfred. . ."
She intertwined her fingers and pushed her face into the portion of his clothing that was quite damp.
Upon the realization that her small face was situated between his arms, forehead digging into his chest, he felt it. A throe of remorse and guilt flared within him. With her so close and so little, and fragile, Alfred lost himself a little.
He heaved a sigh at last and gently kneed the door open, crossing the threshold into their abode.
To say it was a dump - or a rubbish pile as his father, an Englishman would say - would be a gross understatement.
Clothes and various objects were precariously strewn about the cramped area, others stacked in careful heaps. Insects spilled over the crooks and crannies, their antennas and legs and wings in a mess, and the doors wheezed with low screeches.
"Hey, chill." His eyes, as blue as the sky on a Texan summer but worn down by the merciless after effects of poverty, softened down at her. "The world's not a playground, Ammy. It's stupid. Really stupid. Really mean. No one has the time to play. The ones that do . . . They don't know how lucky they are."
Often, he lays awake at night on that rug, biting his own tongue until he choked on his blood to refrain from screaming.
Just screaming into the air.
But he couldn't scream. Heroes didn't scream. They barred their teeth and took everything as it came.
A few minutes later, a dull ache throbbed in his chest. The Ukrainian lady with the really massive mammary glands had told him to eat before taking the medicine.
Alfred had sat her on a rickety chair, dumping the paper and plastic bags onto the small table they had. "I got you a cheeseburger. No fries this time, I'm afraid." He spoke in a casual tone the best he could around her, to keep the bad thoughts away.
He really hoped she didn't want to scream, cry, curl up and disappear. That would be terrible.
He carded his fingers through her dark hair, pushing the heart attack in a bun towards her. "Eat up, make it a little fast, though. Visitation hours are almost over."
The world seemed to vanish as Sadiq fell into a deep slumber. The cricket's chirps fade into the background. The Turk's mask was taken off, eyelids heavy down, the circulation of dark shadow underneath. What happened to his mask, people mockingly asked. It was broken. Executed, at least. The papier-mâché mask was crushed into pieces by a strong fist.
The dreams were perished. Just a blank screen illuminating like a theater, the audience all gone. Sadiq, the only one in that "audience." The Turk just watched the screen, his caramel eyes darkening at each moment. Why was he even in jail? He didn't do anything wrong, did he? No, he didn't. He did nothing wrong.
He's a mocking-bird, is he not? He did nothing wrong. The innocent was persecuted. The lack of empathy was in Seattle, Washington. Or he didn't have any proof at all. Maybe Sadiq did do something wrong. He's just a mere sinner. Maybe he's like those dirties bowls the chef's give you at this jailhouse. Maybe he's one of those filthy street-rats, even those he was one of the wealthiest people in this dreaded town. Was.
"I love you." A voice whispered, a familiar one, her voice gently touching the Turk's ears.
"Get out of my face." He muttered, eyes averting away.
"I love you." It pressed on, a force of hearty heat caressing the Turk's face.
He simply ignored, wanting to say no more.
That was the first time. . The first time Sadiq actually cried in his dreams.
Afterwards, sleeping was unreasonable to the Turk.
Unreasonable and foolish.