Hey guys, it's Birchtree back from the dead. This was written quite a while ago, I think on the same day as If I Die Young, but it takes a while, and a bit too much proofreading, to work up the courage to post. My apologies for the hiatus, but as a more, ah, casual writer, breaks are warranted in my book. Rest assured that there is more to come, and very soon! A happy New Year to you all! [Edit 1/15/16: Learned about page breaks. Added some, fixed spelling mistakes.]
I don't own Hetalia, nor the fanmade game HetaOni. I am, however, in bed wearing my "Make Pasta Not War" shirt, but that is sadly not enough.
It was agony. Utter agony. There was no physical pain, but the weight of so many memories crushed me as swiftly as being pinned by a bus. They weren't good memories, either- watching some of your closest, no, only friends die, over and over and over and overandoverandoverandover…
It wasn't nice.
Why had we come here again? Some stupid rumor…? I can't remember. Where were we? I know that I was somewhere with...the...no, um, a...meeting? I was very scared, and clung onto...what was...was it a him?
Never mind. All I know is, I have to save them, save them all, because it's all my fault. It's all my fault…it's all my fault. No, no, yes, yes, it is, and I have to save them, because it's all my fault! I failed them, I failed them all, and they don't know I failed them. Yet again.
I found a letter earlier this morning. I haven't read it yet, but it's addressed to me.
To the me who lives at some point in time and who isn't alone,
Once again, I have made some mistakes, and also some progress. Meanwhile, I finally but surely began to learn to rely on my friends. I was constantly afraid that everyone would blame me for dragging them into this and that they would hate me or be appalled at me or get mad at me, and leave me.
But then I was told that I had the wrong idea. They were very mad at me. It hurt so much. Not that they hit me, but it really hurt. I finally figured it out, but I can't pass this memory on to my next self. Unfortunately, I'll lose my life yet again.
That's why I'm writing this. Say thanks to England. And tell them the truth. I'm sure they'll get mad, but it's not that they hate you or think you're a pain. Why didn't you rely on your friends sooner? What are friends for? That's what they told me, and that's what they're going to tell you too.
I'm sure I'll cry...and then...and then…
Look around yourself.
Italy Veneziano
This was...this was...no, I had failed them. But...but…
Maybe there was some hope left. Maybe this is the time I would do it. I would make things right again.
I had failed so many people. So many good people, as I can't think of them as nations right now. We chose new names for ourselves, and made a contract not as nations, but as people. In this place, we are nothing but mere humans, and that's just fine.
I had failed Alfred F. Jones, once the personification of the united States of America.
I had failed Arthur Kirkland, once the personification of England, not to mention the rest of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.
I had failed Francis Bonnefois, once the personification of France.
I had failed Matthew Williams, wait...who was he, again?
I had failed Ivan Braginski, once the personification of Russia.
I had failed Yao Wang, once the personification of China.
I had failed Gilbert Beilschmidt, once the personification of the faded nation of Prussia. No one knows why he's still here. Just too stubborn to go, perhaps?
I had failed Kiku Honda, once the personification of Japan.
And most of all, oh God, I had failed Ludwig, no more, no less, once the personification of Germany.
But no more. I will give it one last push, for all of us. For all of those who gave their lives, many, many times, just to save me, and just for me as well. Never again will such a thing as this occur. Ever.
If you were wondering about me, I am Feliciano Vargas, Italy Veneziano, former personification of North Italy.
"Thank you, England."
How 'bout that? Italy started losing memories of his life before the mansion, and no wonder, because he had been reliving the same bloody week or so at least 500 times. I may have played up that aspect a bit too much, but sorry, not sorry.