Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't owned by me.
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Two twenty eight in the morning, this time pisses France off. Why could it not be two thirty? He undid his tie, letting it drag on the floor beside him as he made his way into the kitchen. He swore he had turned off the light before he went over to England's house, but it was on. He no longer paid it any mind and spun his tie around his finger, wrapping it around his refrigerator handle and pulling it open. Instead of praising his new-found door opening technique, he cursed at his quick and senseless thinking. His tie had ripped, and he promised himself that he would never do such a thing again.
He took out a bottle of milk and began to drink it, not bothering to pour it into a cup. Who came over any way? That's right, everyone did, but they wouldn't notice. What's the worst that could happen, complaints of stubble hair in their Yoplait? Oh please! France jumped at the sound of a sharp crash. Glass falling. He called out to see if anyone was there. No reply. He shrugged it off and guessed that his poodle, Parfait, broke another glass. He did it on the daily, though it was usually in the afternoon.
"Parfait, tais toi," France sighed, peeking around his house in an attempt to find his poodle. Parfait was in his room, fast asleep. Worried, he searched for what had broken. It came as a huge shock to him that it wasn't an expensive vase that he barely cared about, but a window that was broken. The strange part about the window was that it seemed to be broken from the inside. Lovely, someone was in his house. At first, he planned on darting out the door and taking his ass back to England's house. Then he thought that someone was being extra kinky tonight and setting up a scene. That had to be it. He whistled, looking for his kinky midnight criminal—damn it even sounded hot—but he found no one. Giving up, he plopped down on his sofa, "Okay cherie, you may come out now."
No reply, "Alright Russia, you're quite the creeper tonight."
No reply, "Belarus?"
Still no reply, "Okay, if you're trying to scare me, oui, I am scared, and I'm going elsewhere thank you. You got me, now paix, paix." He leaped up and grabbed his keys, a stern look on his face. France had decided that he was going back to England's house to show whoever that making the man you're trying to seduce piss on himself didn't work. He tried to avoid the dark areas in his house, but he was destined to come across his hallway, a long walk in the dark indeed.
As he made the trek down his hall, he tried to remain calm. His shoes clomped across the tiles that he could barely see, even with the faint moonlight glowing in through the only window in the hall. He had designed the hallway to be dramatic, so when he would storm down the halls, angered by worldly happenings, his angry stomping would be louder. It certainly was loud, especially in the silence. Heaving a sigh, he told himself that he was being silly, and that the broken window and the light on in the kitchen had only been over-exaggerated in his mind. Some past lover probably threw a rock at his window while passing by in their car again and it just seemed as if it was broken from the inside—-it happened more often than one would think.
His calming assurances were soon dispelled when he heard another clip-clop on his tiles. He didn't dare turn around; instead he walked faster towards the end of the hallway. Damn it, the hallway was only the middle of his voyage out of the house. The other pair of footsteps sped up twice as much, and France couldn't help but whimper. He swallowed and nearly began running, but whoever was behind Francis wasn't concerned about keeping pace with him, and was almost a couple of steps away.
Knowing he was caught, France turned to the culprit hesitantly, "Why are-Seychelles?" In less than one could say a three syllable word, Seychelles had stabbed France with the weapon she carried, a simple knife from the kitchen. However, France was not dead apparently, for he was screaming at the top of his lungs, "God save me! Seychelles-" Displeased with the noise he was making, Seychelles repeatedly plunged the knife into him until the floor was stained with red and the Frenchman made sounds no longer.
She held the knife at her side, smiling wickedly at the corpse below her, "I've made this a hard case to solve, so no one will ever know, Francey." Making sure not to leave finger prints, she made the scene seem as if more than one person broke in; the window, the other window France had failed to notice, and the door she walked right into the house from. She chuckled, because the best part was, she had broken into his house three days ago, and had been staying there in secret ever since.
Seychelles passed by France's body again before heading out of his home. He was bleeding all over, but for some reason it was not enough for her anymore. She glanced down at the knife in her hand; it gleamed in the dim moonlight from the lonely window. She bent beside him, wondering what she should do, then she got it. She plunged the knife into him again through his natty dress shirt, watching blood form around it. Slowly the weapon carved pictures into his clothed back, pictures of kittens and bears which were supposed to seem cute, but the blood seeping from the man's back made it quite disturbing. Bored with pictures, Seychelles tore away at the back of his shirt to see the damage she had done. Unsatisfied, she began to peel skin off of his frame, using the knife to work her way through even the muscle.
She had never seen so much blood, not even from skinning fish. More was what she wanted. The knife was guided to France's neck, but the guide hesitated, only for a second however. Cutting through his neck proved difficult for such a weak knife. Seychelles had to hold down the head with great force—disregarding the fact that she very well may have been making fingerprints—shifting the knife as if cutting the face out of a pumpkin. Blood was everywhere, oozing out of the neck, squirting even, and Seychelles made note to take a long shower when she got back home. Unable to cut any further with the knife she had, she gave up and pulled the knife out of France, only to puncture him again at the top of his skull. Observing the blood dripping out of France's head as the knife was forced out pleased Seychelles into grinning madly. She stood in the pool of blood that had formed for a long while, admiring her handiwork, and eventually began laughing herself silly. When this plan came to mind, she thought she wouldn't be able to do it, but now that she had done it, she found herself wanting more of this feeling. Oh what was it? God-like? Yes, something like that. She smiled wickedly and decided that next on her hit list had to be another "old friend" of hers. Who would catch her right? Who in the world really knew Seychelles, or thought of her as a murderer? That's right, no one. She told herself that she was a perfect killer, and she very well could have been.
A/N: Spoiler; France dies. Oh wait.
I wanted to upload this, but I didn't. It's kind of old and poorly written. But I really wanted to write something that wasn't happy happy yay yay yay! I mean, I wanted to write a story rated M NOT for porn. Maybe I'll add the second chapter.