People handle unpleasant events in different ways. Some drink, some weep, some binge watch The Walking Dead. I write. And while I am fully aware I have a story that is still waiting to be finished, this is something that I have had knocking around in my head for a while and now, with what's happened to my country, this is something that I feel I just had to write as a coping method to remind myself what can happen and also to remind myself that this hasn't happened here yet (and will never, with the blessings of God or luck or whoever). Sorry if that seems overdramatic, but that's just how I feel.
Totally do not own Hetalia. If I did, there would be so many questions and mysteries solved *cough HRE is Germany cough*. Also, this fic will get dark. Really dark. You'll get an idea by the end of the prologue so I won't say too much more, but thanks for reading!
Prologue
"Hello, I'm Rebecca Simmons at the BBC. We begin today's news with a stunning development in the the still controversial topic of the National and International Representatives and their entrance into the public eye.
"Ever since last year's astounding revelation that countries, regions, and even global events are often manifested as individual people, there has been a great demand for these individuals to share their lives and histories with their people. Many historical societies and professionals specializing in historical studies have expressed intense interest in hearing the stories of these people as both supplementary resources and eye-witness accounts of national and international history.
"Today, it seems some of those wishes may have been answered."
To the people of the world,
For many years I have wrestled with the decision of putting the story of my life to paper. Perhaps the greatest thing holding me back was the concern that if I were to write of my experiences, they might well be brushed aside as 'historical fiction', rather than what they are: the truth. But now, with the recent revelation of the existence of National Representatives, as well as their children, I feel that now is the right time to tell my story.
It is strange, many times I have tried to at least document my past and my childhood and I have never been able to, partially due to what I suppose is now termed 'Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder' (we have another word in Deutsche and Italiano but, as I am writing this down in English, I will call it by its English name) and accompanying flashbacks, and due to the simple problem that the story I have to tell is so long and made of so many facets that I have always had difficulty knowing where to start.
For now, I will start this way:
Much of my story has already been written. The dates, the people, the events, good and bad. Some of it has been deemed too terrible to tell. Some of it has been lost because those others who saw and experienced it died before they could pass on what happened. And some of it has been burned out of record by those who seek to hide the crimes of the past.
But now most of those who saw and lived what I lived, my brothers and sisters, my enemies, my allies, and my friends, have passed now to their rewards or punishments. Soon I will be the only one left who witnessed and suffered that crime and I worry that those years will be forgotten. And now, with the world as it is, I have decided to again try and revisit my past, to remind humanity as a whole about the darkness and terror and hatred and horror and pain and death in a history less than a hundred years ago.
That being said, I have already mentioned the difficulty I have had trying to record my origins in the past. My first fifteen years on this planet were so full of life and death, horror and beauty, hatred and apathy, love and sacrifice… even after decades of being free to attend a temple (or whatever house of worship I please), free to go where I want, read what I want – be who I want… There are so many stories that I could never truly put them in a book (as I have told the multitudes of writers and sensationalists that now follow my family and me around, howling for the chance to 'record a vital piece of history'). So I will try the Internet, which has no page limit or need for nosy editors.
But however I tell it, this is my story to tell. And now I offer my stories – my past – to you.
Never forget,
Lucia Miriam Beilschmidt
International Representative of the Holocaust
So yeah. Dramatic? Yes. Overly so? Maybe. Cathartic as hell? F* yeah.
The amount of care and research this fic will take is going to be monstrous, plus doctoral courses kind of suck out pieces of my soul, so I only plan to post new chapters on the 3rd Saturday of each month.
Finally, this is a delicate topic and the writing of it will be something that I approach with great care and respect. The Holocaust was a tragedy of unspeakable proportions and what I put down here will only be the slightest hint of a microcosm of what it was and still is to this day. Though this is an act of coping for me with my life such as it is and the state of the country, such as it is, this is not something that I will treat lightly, but it is something that I have had in my mind for as long as I have loved Hetalia. Now seems as good a time as any.
Hasta la pasta.
