Warnings: Blood, gore, dark themes, obvious mental illnesses, lots'a Spamano fluff (Idon'tevenshipthisverymuch), language
Author's Note: Hello there, everyone. No, I am not dead. Just so you know, I will hopefully be much more active here. This is a... I don't even know. A spin-off of a spin-off? It's a written 'timeline' of Romano after the events of Pasta, by ThatPurplyThing, which is a parody of Cupcakes, by Sgt. Sprinkles. Please read Pasta before you read this, otherwise you'll be like "Lolwut." I have her permission to write this, and I hope she likes it. This is very... Different from anything I've written before. It's in first person, present tense, which has never happened. Plus, this is my first Hetalia fanfiction. I'm sorry. This story is very iffy for me. I enjoyed writing it, definitely, but I don't know if people will like it. I feel it's lacking in description. Meh, I'm just winging it. Enjoy!
I couldn't decide what to rate this, so please tell me if it's "T" or "M".
Symptoms: Auditory hallucinations, visual hallucinations, "Survivor's Guilt", insomnia due to nightmares, emotional numbing or "flat effect", flashbacks of the event that interrupts day-to-day activity, reactions triggered by things that remind of the event.
Delle Mente
June 25, 2009 3:52 PM
"Hello Mr. Vargas. Come on in, have a seat. My name is Dr. Bercelli. Have you had a good day, so far?"
The young man sat down in the chair in front of Dr. Bercelli's neat desk and nodded mutely in answer to the doctor's question. Dr. Bercelli stared at the man in front of him quietly. He sighed, looking at a crisp, neat stack of papers on his desk. He picked a paper up, peering at it through glasses resting on a crooked nose. "It says on your medical records, Mr. Vargas, that you are the humanoid representation of South Italy, or Romano, and due to recent events, now the full representation of the country of Italy," read Bercelli. "We'll call you by your human name, as to not alarm any other patients. Is that alright with you, Mr. Vargas?"
Lovino Vargas remained silent. His amber eyes were glazed over slightly. Bercelli sighed.
"You've had your blood-" Lovino grimaced at the word "- and urine test, correct?"
"Yes," Lovino muttered. Bercelli seemed uplifted at the fact that his patient finally responded vocally.
"I hope you know it's only protocol here at Barcidella, we only want to help," Bercelli said gently. When the doctors had tried to collect some blood, Lovino had quite the panic attack. He ended up having to be sedated.
"Really, I couldn't tell," Lovino muttered. Growing more confident with the young man's vocal responses, Bercelli continued.
"Mr. Vargas, we have diagnosed you with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and you will have scheduled appointments with me every day, before lunch," informed Bercelli as he pushed a slip of paper towards the country sitting quietly in front of him. Quietly wasn't a good word, for the Spaniard who filled out the required paperwork listed Lovino's normal personality as a complete and total polar opposite to what Lovino was showing now. Quiet was something the doctor did not wish to see when he was finished treating Lovino.
Lovino looked down at the paper in front of him. On it was a chart with his schedule on it.
7:00 - 7:30 Wake Up Call - Dorm 415
7:35 - 8:00 Breakfast - West Caf.
8:05 - 10:00 Group Therapy Session - Room 43 - Dr. Pan
10:05 -12:00 Free Time (inside dorms or monitored rooms)
12:05 -1:05 Individual Session - Room 21 - Dr. Gullio
1:10 - 1:50 Lunch
2:00 - 3:00 Group Therapy Session - Room 43 - Dr. Pan
3:05 - 5:05 Individual Session - Room 2 - Dr. Bercelli
5:10 - 6:00 Dinner - West Caf.
6:05 - 8:00 Free Time
8:30 - Curfew - Dorm 415
9:00 - Lights Out
"Today is your first session with me," said Bercelli as Lovino neatly folded the paper and placed it in a breast pocket. "So, let us begin."
June 6, 2009 7:45 PM
We are in Sicily. Almost all countries are situated around the large oval table used for emergency meetings like these. Spain's arm tightens slightly around my shoulders. I don't notice his grip, or his warmth. I can only feel an aching cold, seeping deep into my veins. I want to vomit. Pictures of my slaughter-house of a basement flash occasionally across my vision.
Had it only been a day ago? I chant the names of the missing and most likely dead countries in my head. Doing this keeps me linked to the world around me. I feel that if I don't, then I will float away.
Russia, America, Canada, Belarus, Egypt.
It's quiet, unusual considering the large amount of countries inside Sicily's home. She hurries about, handing England a cup of tea with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Normally I would tell her to stay as far away from him as possible, but I just can't bring myself to care. It hurts too much to care about anything. I feel flat and blank and gray.
Red.
Pain.
So cold.
Austria, Latvia, Poland, Greece, Turkey.
"We need to take action," says France. "We can't just sit here in stunned silence; we need to do something about this, before he can kill any more nations."
"Maybe... it would be best... if Italy were to pay for all of his crimes," says England quietly. My head snaps up and I glare at him.
Costa Rica, Chile, Brazil, Argentina, Morocco.
"No way! I don't care about what he did, he's mio fratellino, he's still my family, and damn you, you will not kill him," I scream, standing and slamming my hands onto the table. England looks at me, surprised.
I'm crying before I realize it. I fall back into my seat and sob into Spain's shoulder. He pets my head and whispers comforting words. Sicily says something and slips her arms around me.
Sudan, Australia, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia, Syria.
Switzerland glances towards me. I glance back and meet his eyes. He grimaces and nods in understanding. Oh God, Liechtenstein.
Bulgaria, Nepal, Mongolia, Cambodia, Vietnam.
Flat.
North Korea clutches a blanket to his chest. He's sobbing into China's shoulder. I recognize the blanket as the South Korean flag. I remember someone telling me North Korea hated his brother. Odd how death brings them so close.
"But we can't just let him roam free. We shouldn't kill him, that won't bring back Austria..." interjects Hungary. She sniffles and Prussia wraps an arm around her.
South Korea, Indonesia, Taiwan, Macedonia, Portugal.
Portugal. I remember Spain being particularly distraught over the disappearance of the small nation and his neighbor. He's been strong, for me. I want to be grateful.
But I can't bring myself to care.
Blank.
I stop crying.
Seychelles, Scotland, Denmark, Netherlands, Norway.
"We should put him somewhere where we won't have to deal with him," offers Ireland. I don't see him at meetings often, but I'm not very surprised. Every country is required to attend this meeting, micro-nation, nonexistent, or otherwise.
I remove my face from Spain's shoulder. Sicily has her face buried in my chest and she's practically in my lap.
Sardinia had visited my room one morning. Later that evening, I asked Italy where she was, for I hadn't seen hide or tail of her since we spoke earlier. My brother said she had to leave. That was the last time I saw her.
I realize my little sister is crying. I can't stay strong enough for her. I hug her close despite myself.
Gray.
Sweden, Romania, Monaco, Croatia, Luxembourg.
"We can take him to the island we stayed on during WWII," says France.
China's crying, too.
Hong Kong. Not a nation, but still China's family. He was loved. He still is.
Then the list repeats itself. 43 nations missing, all of them most likely dead. The last time anyone saw them, they were going to visit Italy. I was right upstairs over half the time. I never noticed. How couldn't I have noticed?
The meeting ends with everyone agreeing to take Italy to the island the Allies and Axis fought on. I'm not particularly depressed about never seeing my brother again, but I'm pleased to know he'd be alive. Even though I didn't act like it, I loved him, and I still do, despite what he has done.
Still my brother. Still fratellino.
Still a murderer.
Flat and blank and gray.
June 9, 2009 2:42 AM
I sit in bed, gazing at the wall blankly. The television is on, blasting some kind of infomercial, but I can't bring myself to focus on it.
Earlier today, or yesterday, Japan returned from the island where he dropped off Italy. I can't seem to wrench my mind away from my little brother. I've tried to drown it out with reading, practicing Spanish (Spain still insists I learn it), and trying to watch any show. None of it worked.
I heave a sigh and roll-over, glancing left towards Spain, who is sleeping peacefully on the bed beside me. I wish numbly that I could sleep like him. Peacefully, without any care, except for that of the person beside me-
...Getting off track.
I prop myself up in bed, leaning against pillows propped against the wall behind me. A small bedside table is to my right, with a digital alarm clock that reads 2:46 AM and a small bottle of water. Absently, I drum my nails against the desk. The vibrations cause the water in the bottle to ripple. I watch it closely.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I reach out with both hands and grasp the water bottle, but it continues to vibrate in my hands with each tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I have both hands on the water bottle.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
But how...?
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap
It won't stop-
It's so loud. My head hurts. Stop it.
KNOCK IT OFF!
...
I swallow what feels like lead. Slowly, I remove my hands from the water bottle. It's completely still. Nothing breaks the silence of night.
I'm shaking. Spain shifts beside me and I grant him an anxious smile that he can't see.
I lie back down and yawn. I've never been so pleased to feel my eyelids droop before. Gently, so as not to wake Spain, I return the pillows to their flat position and lay down with a content sigh. So tired... There's a crack in the ceiling. When did that get there?
There's a grinding noise and the crack grows just a centimeter longer.
Tap.
I scream.
Jun 12, 2009 8:46 PM
Tick, tock.
The ridiculous tomato-shaped clock on the wall glares down at me. "Tick, tick, tock. Tick tock," I mutter under my breath. The hideous thing continues with its time-telling ways. I want time to end. I don't want to continue this anymore. I know something's wrong, I can feel it. I just can't grasp it.
I remember when Spain bought the clock. We were in Genoa with my little brother, who had an important meeting with the mayor and did not wish to go alone. We were walking along the water's edge, near some of the more lively hotels. Small, inconspicuous little shops would sometimes appear between the large, colorful buildings. More often than not, Veneziano would release a cry of excitement and drag Spain and I inside.
One shop sold various knick-knacks from all over the world. I saw different license plates, a ridiculously large stand of snow globes, and a hamburger nearly the size of a chair. The store smelled heavily of citrus floor-polish and old books and the air-conditioning was on way too high for January. Veneziano ran to chat with the pretty young lady behind the counter and he whined at me if I attempted to leave.
Spain was browsing without any particular interest. I was leafing through musty books, finding them to be weirder and weirder. After the fifth book about wizards, Spain ran over to me with the most atrocious thing I've ever seen.
A tomato clock. The minute hand was a fork, the hour a spoon, the seconds a knife. He was so ecstatic about that damnable clock. I wanted to punch him.
He ended up buying it - "Only 8 Euros, Roma! I'm so happy!" - after a struggle in which I refused it outright. Then he ended up hanging it in the bathroom, where I stand now.
I gaze at the clock. 20 hours, 48 minutes, 2 seconds.
3.
4.
5.
What did I come in here for, again?
I was going to shower. Yes, shower. Cleanliness is a good thing. I literally have to force my gaze from that clock.
I find myself giving commands in my head. Stretch. Scratch itch behind knee. Turn on the water, make sure it's not freezing again (damn you and your long showers, Spain.) Mental annoyance. Remove tie, then shirt, pants, underwear. Turn to the right. Realize the water is now scarlet.
Freeze.
Open mouth, but don't scream.
Red flows from the shower head endlessly. It fills the tub below, even though the drain plug isn't in. The red leaks out of the tub, stains the sky-blue curtains, laps at my feet, drips from the ceilings and paints the walls. The tomato-clock is completely untouched.
Close your mouth, you're going to catch flies.
My eyes are about as wide as dinner plates. I haven't blinked in a good minute. Each second stretches on and on, torturously slow.
So much red. I can't move, can't barely breathe.
"FRATELLONE~!"
No.
"I'M HERE FOR YOU, FRATELLONE!"
Not you. I finally move, backing up until my spine hits the wet counter. Wet with red.
"Fratellino. Veneziano."
"I'M HERE, FRATELLONE. I'M HERE NOW."
"You shouldn't. You shouldn't be here. You're on the other side of the ocean. You can't be here," I whisper.
"LOOK AT THE RED, FRATELLONE. ISN'T IT SO PRETTY?" He's yelling so loud, screaming at me in a voice drenched with insanity, making my whole being reverberate. I clamp my hands over my ears.
"LOVE THE RED. EMBRACE THE RED, FRATELLONE. MAKE IT RAIN DOWN AND BATHE IN IT! BATHE IN THE RED!"
"No..." My foot moves forward, towards the red shower without my consent. I grasp the counter tightly. "No, stop it right now, Veneziano."
"YOU CAN'T MAKE ME, FRATELLONE!" he laughs coldly. His face flickers in my vision. His eyes are missing, replaced with gaping bloody holes. His mouth has been cut at the corners, stretching his face into an eternal smile. He laughs again. My vision is drowned in red.
I scream.
"ROMANO!"
My head is pounding.
"Romano, what's wrong?"
He grabs me, fingers tight on my shoulders, nails digging into my skin. The red drips. I struggle wildly. Have to get away.
"Romano, calm down!"
He pushes me backwards. I flail, trying hard to escape, but his grip is like a vice on my arms.
"It's just me, Romano!"
Veneziano, covered in blood, shoots me a malicious smile. He shoves me roughly. I stumble. The back of my leg hits the edge of the tub and I lose my balance.
I fall. I fall forever. I fall into red.
"You can do it, fratellone. I promise it won't hurt. Just let go, succumb, sleep."
"ROMANO, STOP IT!"
"Make it all red. Ve~"
Blink.
The red disappears, replaced by the cool gray marble counter top and the soft cream tile below. I'm sitting in the empty bathtub. I feel warm.
Spain.
"Wha...?"
He jerks in surprise, loosening his hold around my torso. He leans back, examining my face. I meet his eyes, forest green meets caramel.
"Gracias a Dios," he breathes, voice husky as it always is when he speaks Spanish. He kisses me. Gentle, sweet. That's Spain. My Spain, right?
I sound stupid.
"I-I heard you scream. When I ran in, you were standing against the counter, staring into nothing. Your eyes were so... Dull. Almost as if you were dead. I grabbed you, and you started struggling, so I brought you to the floor. You were like that for almost ten minutes," Spain explains to me quietly. Ten minutes? It only felt like a few seconds...
He doesn't say another word, only utters another Spanish phrase before he kisses me again. I feel numb after that terrible ordeal, but I try to respond. He pulls away after a few seconds of hesitation on my part and gazes searchingly into my eyes. I'm shaking.
I whisper "It hurts. So much," and he pulls me close. I'm still naked, but I can't bring myself to care.
I just want to disappear.
Let go.
Succumb.
Sleep.
Tick, tock.
Jun 17, 2009 11:29 AM
Something's wrong.
Something is terribly, terribly wrong.
Something is terribly, terribly wrong with me. With my head.
Five days have passed since that episode in the bathroom. Never before have I been so attached to Spain, and I'm too frightened to deny anything about it. He doesn't push my buttons, though. For that, I'm grateful.
I'm too afraid to be alone, for isolation leads to silence, and silence leads to thoughts, and my thoughts lead to...
Well, I'd rather not dwell on it.
I hadn't recovered from the initial shock from my hallucination in the bathroom until two days after. After that, voices would call out to me whenever I was alone. I could imagine their thin, pale arms grabbing at me. I could hear their voices, telling me to do things. To hurt people. To hurt myself.
And I almost did.
I've been seeing things, too. Brief flashes of things that would linger for any amount of time, then I'd blink, and it would disappear. Yesterday, I opened my closet door to discover a spider the size of my upper body perched on the shelf above. I couldn't move, couldn't find any voice, similar to when my voice randomly locked up on me in the bathroom. The spider had crawled towards me, and suddenly it was on my arms, inching its way upwards. Its hairs pricked my skin like a thousand needles and I could hear its pinchers clacking, right beside my ear.
Then I blinked, and it was gone.
That's not the only thing that's drastically changed. I've become much more withdrawn, more reliant on Spain than ever. I noticed I have trouble focusing, and on more than one occasion have forgotten what I was talking about in the middle of a conversation. I've been getting less and less sleep, each night bringing unwelcome nightmares of bodies strewn across a stone floor, of a bloody meat grinder resting in a corner, of an apron with at least forty flags on them...
I tend to hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, along with the sensation of being watched. Everywhere I go, I feel eyes on me, judging, filled with scorn.
Look at him, couldn't help anyone.
Useless, isn't he?
He couldn't hear the screaming... He deserves to have a punishment... Don't you, Romano?
I confided in Spain after their words became too much to bear alone. He told me they were lying, that I couldn't help anything, that the best course of action would be to ignore them.
Now, I can't tell if they're lying or not.
It's June 17, approximately twelve days since... it happened. The day started out in a relatively normal fashion: be woken up by Spain, dress, eat breakfast, shower, et cetera et cetera, then go about my business as normally as I possibly can.
Normalcy does not want to exist in my life anymore, apparently.
I sip awkwardly at my morning coffee (as much sweetener as possible) as Spain meanders about the kitchen. I watch him quietly, waiting for the coffee to take effect.
Spain swears suddenly, removing his head from deep within the refrigerator. "Our cheese is bad, Roma!" he wails. You'd think it was the end of the world as he knew it, with the way he was freaking out.
I stare blankly at the moldy hunk of cheddar he throws into the garbage (with much sorrow and tears). It's green and white with mold and sagging slightly and the smell is like when the neighbor's cat gets wet. I watch it fly through the air and the world is suddenly in slow motion. The cheese lands in the trash and the world speeds up again.
"Roma? Are you alright?"
I jump, and look towards him again. "Fine, fine," I reply, waving my hand in dismissal, "I was just thinking."
His brow furrows, "About?"
I ignore him.
"I can go get some more cheese," I offer casually. He blinks, obviously surprised.
"I-I'm not sure about that, Romano. At least let me go with you," he says hesitantly.
"I'll be fine, Spain. The dairy is only two blocks away," I say. He regards me carefully, and then sighs.
"Alright Roma. Be back in an hour, or I'll come looking for you."
June 17, 2008 11:34 AM
"Stupid Spain. I can do this just fine!" I grumble to myself. I stomp my way down the sidewalk, waving to those acquaintances of Spain who recognize and greet me. They watch me warily, as if I am a ticking time bomb: unstable. But what do they know? I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. It's not my fault my brother turned out to be some psychopath...
Sometimes I want to hurt myself.
...
...
Maybe I am unstable. But I digress.
The dairy is a quaint little shop, just nestled between a fancy restaurant and a hardware store. Not the perfect place for a dairy, but it looks out to the bustling street and attracts many customers.
Their cheese is damn tasty, also.
A bell chimes as I open the door. The aroma of many different kinds of cheeses greets me as I step inside. The shop is small, with one wall completely taken over by a picture revealing any type of cheese known to man. To the other wall, a glass counter sits. Inside of it are examples of the many cheeses. The woman behind the counter smiles at me pleasantly. I don't have to look at her name tag to know her name is Nina. She and Spain are on good terms, she being an art major, which is no surprise seeing how Spain gets along with nearly all of his citizens.
"Hola, Lovino," she chirps, looking up from the wheel of provolone she is wrapping, "long time no see! What can I get for you?"
"Cheddar, please. Antonio had a bitch-fit earlier when he saw we ran out."
Nina giggles, "Ah, he's quite the drama queen, isn't he? Let me guess, enchiladas?" She finishes wrapping the order and moves away from the counter, disappearing into a doorway to her right that presumably led to a storage room. Quickly, she returns with a block of cheddar sealed in a plastic bag. She hands it to me inside of another plastic bag. "That would be 15 Euros."
I pay for the cheese and leave the shop after exchanging farewells with Nina. Out into the street once more, I turn and make my way back to Spain's home. I spare a glance at the restaurant as I pass it. An old couple is seated near me. The woman, wiry gray hair drawn into a bun, laughs at her husband as a pretty waitress places a plate in front of her. Spanish flies rapidly around me, but I can only focus on the plate.
Some form of pasta, I can't tell what, coated in tomato sauce.
But is it really tomato sauce?
Cold stone floors, splattered with blood, dark brown with age. A meat grinder rests in a corner, covered in the same substance. The red is vibrant and hurts my eyes.
A plate of pasta, blue puffy-paint stars on the edges.
"Ve, Romano, I made some tasty pasta!"
Bodies.
"Lovino? Lovino what's the matter?"
I can see Spain among them. His flag is carved into his back, large strips of flesh gone to represent the red stripes on his flag, revealing the abused muscle underneath. So much red. So much blood.
It hurts, doesn't it, Romano?
His skin is sagging, his skull is missing. His chest is sliced open like some kind of twisted piñata. A few of his ribs have been snapped like toothpicks.
The memories hurt you. Don't you want it to end?
I want to vomit.
You can stop the memories, Romano. You can end it all, end your pain.
No... Spain. I can't, Spain will be devastated.
You love him?
N-No way! Spain and I are-
You love him.
...Yes.
Yet you couldn't save him.
He's alive! He's alive and breathing, waiting at home for his cheddar so he could make his stupid enchiladas...
He is dead.
No.
Look at his corpse, Romano. Veneziano got to him. You're worthless, you couldn't save him. You couldn't save him, Romano, and he is dead.
I... He can't be...
You couldn't save him.
I... Couldn't save him.
You don't deserve to live.
I...
You should suffer for your ignorance.
Pay... For not saving... Them... Spain...
Punish yourself.
Punish...
You're worthless.
I'm... Worthless...
End it.
SMACK!
My vision rushes back to me so quickly it dazes me. I'm on my knees on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. The elderly couple is gone. Nina stands over me, and that's when I notice the worried crowd surrounding me, and my stinging cheek.
"What...?" Why do I have to say that every time I regain control of myself?
Nina looks down at me with a grimace. "C'mon, Lovino, let's get you home," she says gently. She helps me to my feet and grabs the bag containing the cheddar which I must have dropped. Someone shoves through the crowd, eliciting murmurs of disapproval.
"Ms. Morales, Mr. Vargas," calls the man. He darts toward us, panting slightly. "I'm Dr. Ortega. I can come with you, if you'd like.
"Feel free, we need a doctor," says Nina.
I scowl at him, "I don't."
"Mr. Vargas, you hit your head fairly hard on the ground when you fell, so maybe it'd be best if I came with."
"...Fine then."
June 18, 2009 5:54 PM
Dr. Ortega thinks I'm insane. I think he's right.
Spain was shocked to see me come back with Nina and a random doctor in tow. I was helped to the living room by my little worry-party, and was rested with utmost care upon the deep maroon corduroy couch. Very much worried, Spain had flitted around me like some worried hummingbird while Ortega checked my vitals to make sure I wouldn't die within the next hour or so.
Nina pulled Spain aside to explain what happened. I asked for her not to tell him, but she was persistent. "He needs to know, Lovino," she had said, looking at me with pity, something I hated.
The two returned from the dining room to talk to Ortega. While they explained, I stared blankly at the Terra-cotta colored walls. A painting of the Caribbean is was right above my focus point. I noted it was slightly crooked, and had to resist the strong urge to get up and straighten it.
"Lovino?"
I glanced over at Spain, eyebrows quirked upwards. He met my eyes, so many unreadable emotions flickering in those green pools. I had to resist the urge to look away.
"Lovino, what happened?"
And I told him. I told him everything, because he genuinely cares.
I told him because I love him.
That's right.
Spain and I sit at the dining table in a tense silence that I don't want to break. He keeps glancing towards me and opening his mouth as if he wants to say something, then closes it again. Ortega and Nina left about five minutes prior, and we've been sitting in a dead silence ever since.
Finally, I break it. "I heard what Dr. Ortega said about me," I mutter. Spain looks up, surprised, then his gaze softens into something so adoring, so full of love and care and worry and ohGodithurts-
"Romano..." he pulls me into a kiss. It's gentle, like always. "I just want you to be better. I don't want you to hurt anymore, precioso," he whispers against my lips. I sniff and nod, wrapping my arms around him, holding him close because he cares, and I don't want him to hurt because of me.
"I love you," I breathe. He seems to melt in my arms.
"Te amo demasiado, mi palomita. Te amo..." he replies.
Because in one week, in seven days, in 168 hours, in 604,800 seconds, I will be sent to Barcidella Hospital for the Mentally Ill, in the country just south of Palermo, in Sicily, who will be visiting me frequently. In one week, I will be cured, and no longer will the voices plague me.
You know that will never happen, Romano.
I hope.