7 Or 8 Things I Know About Her
This is a combination of very short snipits of a story that doesn't actually exist. It's as if I took quotes out of it and put them together. I wrote this with Fem!Germany and Prussia in mind but it's not exactly easy to tell. I thought I'd post it on here but I don't expect many people to read it—that's fine by me.
The story of this is Prussia is insane and has been for a long, long time and Fem!Germany is losing herself taking care of him. The last snipit has hints of Italy/Fem!Germany, or at least I meant to hint at it there and the second to last one is in Prussia's point of view.
Her Brother's Mind
They found restraints hidden under his mattress after her brother passed away. No one blamed her for what she did. She did what she had to do to keep him out of an institution. No one knew why she did it though. No one understood why she wouldn't just send him away. Even neighbors four or five houses down could hear his conscienceless screams in the night but no one called to ask if she needed help. No one did anything.
The Armadillo
Armadillo's are the only animals on the planet that can get leprosy. There have even been documented cases of armadillo to human transfers of the disease, and vice versa. The animal can't take all the blame but it is one of the reasons she avoids the mid-west.
The Creek
In actuality, it wasn't a creek. It was a stream of sewage water that ran through the complex of shared town-houses and apartments. It was decorative, with a carefully crafted oak bridge crossing it and ending in a huge tunnel covered in masterful graffiti. Their father always, always told them not to play in it but they did anyway—thinking that he couldn't tell what they did when they came home smelling like spoiled water and grime. It was too tempting to avoid. The creek was their warzone, their preferred point of invasion. Her brother, despite the misogynist that he tried to be, always let her add her Barbies into the mix whenever they set up battles with his vast collection of G.. She cut off their hair, wrapped them in oversized greens, and sometimes even sharpie on war paint under their pretty, enhanced eyes. She never won on her own, she always needed to be on her brother's side or the other neighbor boys would push her into the creek.
First Criticism
He was five when they first started saying he was not-exactly-normal. Her parents tried again, probably in a vain attempt to have a decent little boy to carry on the family's esteemed title. Her mother watched the moon, followed her cycle, and ate more cereal than any normal person throughout her pregnancy. They didn't want to know the sex— they wanted to be "surprised" when their precious baby boy came out. Her mother was just putting off disappointment—some motherly instinct or something. Of course, she was born and of course, she wasn't what her father wanted.
Listening In
"Oh, Fatherland, Fatherland, show us a sign, your children have waited to see. The morning will come when the world is mine, tomorrow belongs- tomorrow belongs- tomorrow belongs to me."
He sings with such bravado, she can even hear the orchestra backing her brother's singing as he sits on the doctor's table in a straight jacket.
Self-Criticism
"On occasion it sounds like there is a vuvuzela blowing in my ear and it hurt when people thought I was just "not listening" when I really was—their words were just over powered by the obnoxious ringing in my ears."
Fantasies
She tried to be a realistic girl who wouldn't waste time on fantasies and day dreaming. But in the middle of the night, when she's tangled in sheets and feather-stuffed comforters, she yearns for one thing—but she'd never dare to tell anyone. She wants an artist of a more-than-friend status to paint her back. For his brush to trail up and down her back like little, delicate fingers. The paint would glisten against soft skin and curves. In most versions of this, it's a tree that he paints—the roots expanding out in the small of her spine.
I put this in poetry because it's a form of prose-poetry.
I hope that didn't bore you!
Danke!