I'm back from the dead

I mean my break! (As if anyone missed me.)

To those who actually read my other story, Madhouse, it's on hold for now. That's why I'm starting this other story. (Meh, being around clocks and pictures of bloody clocks are seriously not good for an author. Seriously.)

I don't own Hetalia.


Tick. Tick. Tick.

Time is ticking.

I know it is…

Tick. Tick. Tick.

You can't succeed.

I will come out on top.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Time is running out.

I still have some time…

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Failed again.

I'll try again.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Just give up right now.

I never will.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

You're no hero…

Yes…

I…

Am!


He glared at the grandfather clock on the opposite side of the room. He eyed the pendulum with a fire in his eyes, hoping that somehow, he could melt the offending item. The people looked at him as if he were a maniac, and whispered among themselves about the strange man. The man took no notice of the crowd and continued in his staring. The clock struck twelve, and as the clock rang, the man murmured to himself with venom in his voice.

Alfred had always hated clocks, no matter what size, shape, color, or form they were. He would always stare at them with seething rage and whisper to himself, earning himself strange looks from the people around him. It never bothered him though, unlike most people who would shy away from the masses.

He left the room, never taking his eyes off the clock as he did. As soon as he made it outside, he punched the wall. He pulled his arm back and stared at his bloody fist. He huffed and punched the wall again. Even more people gossiped and stared in shock. Mothers covered their children's eyes, couples walked faster to escape him.

"Why can't I save you?"

Another punch. Another bloody fist. Alfred bit his lower lip as the first tear flowed down his cheek.

"Why couldn't I save you?" he said, stopping his actions for the sake of his body. He stretched his arm out and leaned on the wall for support. He panted and slid to the floor. He grabbed his head with his hands, ready to tear his hair out. He glanced at the people around him and quickly faced the wall. He couldn't care less about them. He wanted them to see how much he had failed, and how he was a failure.

"Tell me," he whispered in chocked sobs, "Has time stopped? Am I a hero to you?"

He heard the grandfather clock from the other room. He heard its ticking. He hissed, the clock was taunting him.


How many seconds left?

Find out for yourself.

How many more minutes until it's over?

I'll never tell.

Tell me… that there is time left… I beg you…

Why, what would you do to convince me to tell you?

I promise to keep it… To never let it slip from my grasp…

Promises. What pitiful little things, always broken.

Just tell me… that there is still time for me to save him…


Any ideas who the person speaking in italics is/will be? (Cause I still don't. I do have a number of persons that fit the role.)

Who is Alfred referring to? (You probably all know though. Sigh.)

Has my writing gotten any better? Any violent reactions to it?