Another day of solitude for Francis Bonnefoy, a resident of the Hetalia Mental Hospital. He could no longer remember why he was here in the first place. Oh wait. Yes he could. He had originally been obtained for his love of l'amour. Not one of the many institutions he had been to wanted to keep him. Mostly because of his roaming hands and the amount pof people he would have to come in contact with each and every day. It never lasted more than a week.
Then there was Hetalia. It was the only place that would take him on full time. He remembers the day as if it were yesterday.
FLASHBACK…
The heat of mid-day seemed to mock the stylish blond as he was led into a pristine white building that looked as if it was purposely made so that it would not evoke any sort of emotion. A set of seven or so steps led up to two wooden doors. Upon entering the lobby, one would find an even more mind-numbing array of decoration. Plain white chairs with matching white cushions lined what appeared to be a sort of waiting room. To the right, a beige desk hid the lower portion of a bored looking receptionist from view.
Francis's escorts led him to the desk whilst still giving him a wide girth. They fed some information, instructions, and warnings to her while she jot down notes, none of which Francis had been listening to. His mind was attempting to occupy itself elsewhere, hence when he was urge towards the door across from the one which they had previously entered through, he nearly [fabulously] toppled head over heels onto the ground.
As soon as Francis's composure had been rightfully regained, he was led through the new set of doors and into a hallway that was as blank as the exterior of the building. Soon enough they reached an empty room, and the Frenchman was ushered inside.
Such is where Francis finds himself today, two years later and no better for wear. It gets lonely when then only person one sees during then day is the poor orderly who is unlucky enough to bring him his meals. All in the name of l'amour one must suppose.