Disclaimer: Do not own, yatta, yatta
AN: Yeah. Everything France is saying in French are swears. So now you can insult people in French. This came about for the 100 theme challenge on dA, and I really wanted to write violence. And then there was history class.
Kick in the Head
"Putain!" I hissed. "Merde." I cradled the phone against my ear, praying that he would pick up.
Click. "Hello?"
"Angleterre," I sighed. Never did I think I'd be so glad to hear that British accent. "Help."
"Francis? Is everything okay?"
Downstairs, a door creaked open and boots stomped against the floor. "Non. It is Germany. 'E's 'ere."
"Shit! Shit! Francis, you need to – "
The door slammed open and I dropped the phone.
"C'est chiante," I hissed.
"Hallo Francis," Germany sneered, "Are you going to give up now?"
"Non," I replied, after a beat of hesitation, "I will never – "
A steel-toe boot to the stomach cut me off.
"Then," My head was pushed down, "We will have to do this," he grabbed my hair and pulled me back up, "The hard way."
C'est le foutu bordel.
He roughly pushed me against the wall, not letting go of my hair. My nose was grabbed by his large hands, and abruptly twisted to the right. My scream may have blocked the sound of the cracking, but it did little to subdue the pain. I was carelessly tossed to the floor and one of those god-awful boots was slammed down on my mouth.
My swearing may have been muffled by the boot, but it was still loud as Hell.
Roughly, one of my arms was pulled behind me. A heavy weight was transferred onto my body, and one of Germany's knees dug between my shoulder blades.
I couldn't form words as my arm was pulled away from my shoulder – I could only scream.
But through my scream, I could still hear Germany cackling. He was laughing. Fucking laughing.
My shirt was lifted in the back, and the distinct click of a pocketknife warned me of what was to come.
Merde. Merde, merde, merde!
I cannot begin to describe the cutting. Imagine…no. Do NOT imagine. You cannot begin to recreate the pain.
One deep cut running between my shoulder blades with hooks on each end. A horizontal line in the middle of that one, also hooked at the end.
A swastika.
He carved a fucking swastika into my back.
My vision was blurred from the pain, blood loss, and lack of Oxygen.
"Nique ta mère," I hissed.
Everything went black as I was kicked in the head.
"Bloody Hell! Shit! Bugger! Fuck!"
Am I dead?
"No! No! Bloody fucking Hell no!"
I can't be. There'd be no Brits in heaven.
I forced myself to pry my eyes open.
"Francis?"
"An-angleterre…" I smiled, and, judging by his eyes, I was probably missing a few teeth, or still very bloody.
"God dammit, Francis!" he pulled me into his arms, "I am so fucking sorry!"
No. He did not just apologize! That means that everything is real, that everything is bad! No! No! I must be affected by that kick to the head! That must be it!
It explains the hug.
It explains the worry.
It explains the tears.
I was kicked in the head, it explains all of this.
"I love you."
"Je…je t'aime aussi…"
It explains that.