Sunday, Bloody Sunday.
31st January 1972
"You really have picked a most inconvenient time to visit, France."
"Come now, Angleterre, you know you love my visits!" was the calm reply. "Regardless, I have a lot on my plate as it is, and I don't need the extra hassle of you loafing around the place." The blonde snapped. "You wound me Angleterre!" France cried, mock hurt soaking his voice. It was at that point that the Englishman's study door was kicked open by a rather savage looking young man, sweat slicked dark brown hair sticking to his forehead, suggesting he had run all the way here, furious green eyes burning with righteous anger.
"YOU!" He roared, glaring terrible rage at England. "What the FUCK do you think you're doing?!" The young man growled, advancing on the older country. "Having lunch with a friend" England replied coldly. "You know what I mean you English bastard" the man snarled. Knowing exactly who the intruder was and what he was on about, not liking it, England tried to dodge the bullet and avoid a scene in front of France, but no such luck apparently. "What do you want Ireland?" England enquired, setting down his cup of tea. "I want an explanation, you little fucker!" The Irish man snarled, "why the FUCK did your paras open fire on unarmed fuckin' CIVVIES, you bastard?!" England sighed, he had hoped to avoid something like this, but alas luck was not on his side that day. "My soldiers assure me that their actions were purely retaliatory" Ireland gave a derisive snort, muttering "Retaliatory my arse" under his breath, earning him a harsh glare from England. "They inform me that members of the crowd were not only carrying weapons, but were firing at my soldiers and they were simply returning fire."
Ireland let out a small growl of annoyance before grabbing England by the lapels and hoisting him out of his seat, leaning in 'til their noses were almost touching, he spoke, voice choked with anger "John Duddy, 17. Patrick Joseph Doherty, 31. Bernard McGuigan, 41. Hugh Pious Gilmour, 17. Kevin McElhinney, 17. Michael G. Kelly, 17. John Pius Young, 17. William Noel Nash, 19. Michael M. McDaid, 20. James Joseph Wray, 22. Gerald Donaghy, 17. Gerald McKinney, 34. William A. McKinney, 27." The way he listed them, like some gruesome role call "I want those names to haunt you forever, I want so you can never get a night of sleep without seeing their faces, I want it that simply your continued existence is a constant reminder of what you did, Arthur." The name dripped off of his tongue like sugar coated snake venom. With that, the Irish boy turned and exited, one last unspoken word left hanging in the air.
Murderer.
21st August 1973
That statement. England mentally cursed Major Hubert O'Neill, why did he have to say something like that? The blonde sighed, knowing that he wasn't really annoyed at the man, especially for telling the truth, even if he didn't want to admit it.
"This Sunday became known as Bloody Sunday and bloody it was. It was quite unnecessary. It strikes me that the Army ran amok that day and shot without thinking what they were doing. They were shooting innocent people. These people may have been taking part in a march that was banned but that does not justify the troops coming in and firing live rounds indiscriminately. I would say without hesitation that it was sheer, unadulterated murder. It was murder." That was what the man had said, and it was tearing England apart, the major had simply confirmed what he and Ireland already knew. "murderer…Murderer…MURDERER!!!" That one word echoed through the Englishman's world, comfortingly accusing.
The inquiry had been a whitewash, like he had expected, the politicians wanting to protect the army, hiding away the shame as best they could. But when the time came, when the public calls for truth are too strong to ignore, the truth he shall give them, and when they called for recompense, he would gladly serve them the perpetrators' heads on platters. That atrocity was something he would not, could not defend. "murderer" he mumbled to himself. He had always thought what he was doing was right, fair, good for everyone. But now, he didn't know what to think. "I'm knee deep in a sea of blood and the tide's starting to come in…"
… murderer
A.N, Yeesh, that was a crappy ending. Ah well. This is a series of one-shots centring around the Irish Troubles, in no specific order, just as and when an idea pops into my head. The first date is a day after the events mentioned, as the death toll was not known 'til then, the list of names Ireland gives are the names of the thirteen people killed on bloody Sunday, one other died 4 and a half months later due to the wounds recieved that day.
Reviews plz, they make me happy.