A/N: So here's a new one, on Iraq and Kurdistan yet again xD
This is kind of a lost scene from "Good". That is all.
Disclaimer: I can draw stick figures. Not Hetaliaesque things of beauty. So I own nothing.
D is for Damaged Goods
After America had left their house, when the Nation and the region found each other again, Kurdistan found it kind of strange that Iraq was smiling like he was. He looked tranquil, serine, peaceful. Almost pleasant, if Iraq could ever be considered such. After all that he'd heard happening beyond that closet he'd been trapped in, the sheer horror of it, it was for Iraq to be sobbing and traumatized and in pain—certainly, everything but happy. He spoke calmly and freely, as if everything was fine, and if Kurdistan didn't know any better, he never would have guessed that anything was wrong at all. And for a moment, he wondered if Iraq really was that heartless. Did he truly not feel the effects of what had just happened to him?
But then he remembered how he had been screaming as it happened. Crying—Iraq never cried. He wasn't heartless, he felt what had happened. So then why wasn't he letting it show? Was he in denial? The thought of that scared Kurdistan more than anything, because he knew that Iraq wouldn't be able to stay in denial for long. He knew that someday Iraq wouldn't be able to hold it back anymore, and when that day came it would all come down on him like an ocean, and he wouldn't be able to handle it. And it would then manifest into something horrible.
Kurdistan suddenly felt sick. "I'm tired, I think I'm going to go off to bed."
Iraq froze, and Kurdistan almost involuntarily shrunk back. Had he said the wrong thing again?
"But I thought that you'd been sleeping that entire time," Iraq mumbled, his lips barely moving. It was bright enough for Kurdistan to see that he wasn't smiling anymore, but dark enough so that he couldn't quite see the look in Iraq's eyes. He mistook fear for impending rage.
"I was, b-but I, I'm just tired as all! Like…" he had to think fast, "my body was in that awkward position, that closet does-doesn't have a lot of room, and I, um, was hunched over, and my back hurts?" he ended off his haphazard excuse as a question, not an actual statement. Kurdistan cringed from the embarrassment; Iraq would never believe something like that.
"Okay."
Kurdistan blinked. "Huh?"
"I said, 'okay'. I mean, I can understand, you were in there for an awful long time." Iraq took Kurdistan by the arm and lead him into his own room.
Iraq soon found himself laying Kurdistan to bed, the smile he had forced upon on his face beginning to sting. He hurt everywhere, and wanted nothing more than to curl up and disappear. He tried his best to hold back the river of tears that he had, his agony, the pain that he didn't deserve to burden Kurdistan with. After all he had done to his autonomous region, it was for the boy to laugh at his misfortune, and yet he wasn't; Iraq wouldn't push that any further.
Kurdistan smiled, and asked him, what was he staring at? His words were dulled out, faint, everything in Iraq's world still surreal in a terrible kind of way. All he could think to say was sorry, I didn't mean to stare. Sorry. He rose and turned away after that, starting towards the door. Behind him, he heard Kurdistan say something, call out to him, but he didn't stop to ask what it was. Kurdistan was sweet, but he was also an idiot. A wonderfully sweet idiot that he didn't deserve. He wanted to tell his region not to try to reach out, not to try to understand him, because he wasn't worth it; not before all of this, and certainly not after what had just happened.
He made his way down the hall, to the bathroom. Slowly, he removed the bloodied clothing, still a bit wet and sticking to his skin. He didn't notice it, but his pants were inside-out, his shirt torn; after America had left, he put his clothes on in a hurry, trying to find Kurdistan. He didn't want America to find him on his way out, he didn't want him turning on Kurdistan in the same way. Doing that, he felt, was the first truly good thing that he'd done in a while. He felt a speck of relief for this, but it was a small star eclipsed by the storm.
He avoided looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, afraid of what he'd see, of how tainted he now was. The floor was cold, and he tried to focus on that rather than the dried blood that stuck to his inner thighs. What had happened to him. How America tore out his heart.
He stepped into the shower and turned the water to the coldest that it would go. Iraq wanted to numb himself, to forget what had just happened. He couldn't. His mind still reeled, his old lover over him, inside of him, touching him, biting at him, beating him, choking him. Invading him. He couldn't hold it back anymore; Iraq brought his hands up to his mouth and clamped down tightly, muffling his own sobbing. He didn't want Kurdistan or anyone else to hear him, because everything was fine, he wouldn't tell anyone, couldn't tell anyone, nothing had happened, everything was fine. He had to bury this secret; he could tell no one but Allah. He was the only one who wouldn't condemn and shun him for what he now was. He didn't want—nor could he afford for—anyone to know how damaged he now was.
Iraq looked up, and saw a reflection of himself in one of his bathroom tiles. In it, his image was distorted, but it was accurate to how he felt. He knew that he was different, now. Tainted, used, worthless, but something else, too. Different. Something had changed.
He remained in the shower until his skin pruned and he could no longer see blood in the water that washed away from him. He went down to the kitchen and brought out a knife. Across his forearm, he carved out "2003", his face void of pain as if he felt nothing. He would never forget 2003, for the rest of his life. He licked the blood that flowed from him, somewhat enjoying the taste. America had hurt him; now, he had hurt himself. Only this time was better, at least to Iraq, because at least now he was in control. And what did it matter if he hurt himself, anyway? He was damaged goods.
When Kurdistan came into the kitchen a few hours later, Iraq had already bandaged himself and made breakfast. The smile never left his face.
A/N: THIS IS THE LAST IRAQ/KURDISTAN FIC FOR A WHILE. I SWEAR. Okie dokie not really but at least in this project.
This is pretty much an afterthought of sorts, for my other fic "Good". Pretty much the after effects of the US invasion, from both Iraq and Kurdistan's points of view (for those of you who didn't read "Good", Kurdistan was pretty much a… semi-witness to the rape. A not-really-but-yes witness. GO READ FOR MOAR DETAILS but yes, I just felt that I needed to have a sort of closure to that scene, since I never really gave one.)
Okay, so, just so we're clear. I've seen many beautiful things come out of this fandom, and equally beautiful people :D But a certain part of this fandom can be a bit… immature when it comes to subjects like this, and… look, the point is, I don't take rape and sexual abuse lightly. I only buy into the invasion=rape theory in very selective cases, and can't stand fics where it has a sex scene that starts off as legit rape and then leads to the victim liking it. Dushie does not approve :I
With that said, when I wrote this, I tried to keep it as accurate as I could to how a rape victim would actually feel, through the scope of Iraq's personality and how he would react to something as huge as this.
So anyway. Review?