"W-why?" sobbed the strangled voice of the broken woman below him. He traced the trail of her tear with the tip of his blood stained knife as another traveled down her cut and bleeding face. Dio, I hate that question. Why won't she just shut up? At the thought, he plunged the knife quickly into her throat, resulting in a hollow gurgle from his victim as all blood flooded her lungs. He watched closely as the last bits of life left her eyes. He stood and took a few steps back to admire his work.

Across her bare chest he had carved a picture of white and red. A forest of treetops traveled up her abdomen on either side of the winding crimson river that started at the peak of her hills and wound through a valley of poppies.

He smiled appreciatively at his work before shedding his blood stained clothing in favor of the cleaner ones beneath. He stashed his knife within his pocket and started the journey back to his hotel room- a skip in his step and a tune on his tongue.

"Italy, vake up!" A stern voice with a strong german accent brought him from his daydreams.

"Ve~ But Doitsu~ I'm so tired!" Italy whined. Can it you blond pile of muscle, I need some sleep.

"You can sleep after the meeting! England is speaking!"

Dannazione. "Ve~..."He pouted and sat up a bit and view the other countries from the cracks of his eyelids. Nothing ever really changed at the meetings. No one paid real attention to anyone's words but their own, and nothing ever got done. Why can't they just shut up? If only I could put a knife in their throats. Then they'd be quiet, and I could get some sleep.

Why can't you?

There's too many of them. They'd find out.

Please. Who'd suspect poor, weak, little you?

A voice rang through the turmoil of the room, calling the meeting to a close. Finally. Italy hoped out of his chair. I can barely spend an hour with these idioti, let alone a week. He pranced along behind Germany, a stupid smile plastered across his face as chittered happily about pasta, and England's eyebrows, and whatever other innocent thought that popped into his head.

Before long, he was back in his home in Milan, but not for long. He changed his clothes and grabbed his favourite knife. Romano was out with Spain tonight, so he had plenty of free time. I think it's time I pay old Switzy a visit. He smiled to himself and skipped out the door.

Bastardo pomodoro idiota! Why would I want to hang out with those idioti friends of his? Romano banged open the door to the house he shared with his brother. Not that I was looking forward to our date-It wasn't a date!-but that doesn't mean he can invite those bastardi to come along with us. Idiota! Idiota! Idiota! He stomped through the house. Where's my fratello idiota? A muffled scream startled him from his thoughts. He quieted his footsteps, moving cautiously towards the source of the noise as another rang through. "Fratello?" He open the basement door and tiptoed down the stairs, now able to distinguish the sound of sobbing and tittering laughter.

"Don't cry~ You're going to look so pretty~!"

Romano paled at the sound of his brother's voice. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he froze.

Italy sat straddling a young blond man whose fearful blue eyes were wide and wet with tears. Across his bare torso was the image of a fowl drinking from a deep red lake with tall cattails dusting the edges.

"Don't you want to pretty~?" the Italian asked cheerfully, pricking his cheek and eliciting a small whimper. "Your eyes are very pretty~" he touched the tip of the blade to the corner of the man's eye. Giggling at the trembling figure, he sunk it in, popping the eye from its socket and detaching it from the nerves that held it. "See~?" He held the man's eye up for him to see. He promptly lost what little grip on consciousness he had left. "Tsk," Italy dropped the eye. "You're no fun." He stood, slitting the man's throat and leaving him to bleed to death on the blood soaked stone floor.

Romano stood at the base of the stairs, watching everything as it transpired, trembling as much as the man his brother had killed. HE wanted to cal out, to stop him, to run away; but all he could do was stand there, pale and wide eyed, and stare as it happened.

Italy turned around, a twisted smile on his blood spattered face. When he saw his brother, he froze. What's he doing here? Why isn't he with Spagna? How much did he see? The thought's raced through his head. He quickly replaced his usual stupid grin on his face and skipped towards him, trying to cover himself, but it was too late. He was caught.