It had been just another ordinary day.
Belgium had woken up, feeling content, showered using her favorite shampoo that smelt of fresh snow, and had gotten dressed in her cute plaid dress that hugged her at the waist, the hem of the skirt dipping right below her knees, the long skin-tight sleeves clutching at her body like a snowflake in a fiery grip. She added a pair of long brown socks that went cutely along with the Christmas plaid of emerald, holly berry red, and gold. The Flemish-French nation pulled on a pair of fantastic red boots. High, boxy heels and squared off toes. Practically vintage.
She walked downstairs, past her living room, complete with decorative wreaths and lights for the holidays, the Christmas tree standing upright with the angel with winter white wings in the place of the star, ornaments crowning the boughs like a laurel wreath in the Olympic Games. She gave a slight smile, noting the presents that were already under the tree and piled on top of the coffee table, ranging from snowflake patterns to those of Santa Clauses pushing the words "Merry Christmas".
Breakfast was a quiet affair since she lived alone in her house. English ivy crept up the side of the sturdy brick building, topped with a black tiled roof and a yellow door that, in accompaniment to the stained glass trimmed into a large, but neat oval just above the doorknob, looked cherry in the daylight, and downright enchanting in the nighttime, the whispers and promises of a Elven queen dwelling in the mortal realm.
The Belgian girl scraped together a sumptuous meal of waffles and hot chocolate, the faint tint of cinnamon deep within the steamy drink. She ate slowly, savoring the flavor of the fluffy breakfast foods, relishing how tasty it was. They came from Bruges and Liege, two of her cities. She smiled to herself. She had stayed above the influence of the other nations, not caving to France's advances and Netherlands' persistence to protect her when she was in no need to be protected. For god's sakes, it was 2011, not 1815!
Belgium prided herself in being completely strong and self-reliant. She would power through with anything that came her way.
Little did she know she'd have to be strong sooner than she thought.
Liege really was a great city, despite their history of high crime, Belgium thought to herself as she drove through the streets full of Christmas shoppers, some with little children skipping alongside, holding fast to their parent's hands, begging to help carry the presents back home, or businessmen in crisp suits jabbering away on their cell phones as they ducked into work. She spared a quick glance out her window at the beautiful stretch of the Meuse River, racing underneath her car and several hundred others as the zoomed across the bridge connecting one part to the other. Belgium kept her playful green eyes on the road ahead of her, mouth resembling a demented cat's as she sped past the other cars going the minimum speed to avoid accidents. Life wasn't fun if you didn't take risks once in a while.
Belgium parked the little car in one of the nearby parking garages and then began to walk the remaining two blocks to her favorite confectionary, already feeling Father Frost in the air as the freezing cold air whistled past her, ruffling her golden locks, held back by a green ribbon. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart was thumping at an alarming rate and it was getting hard to breathe She clutched the wall for support to catch her breath, and took a detour, walking into a crowded Christmas market instead of going past the alleyway and down the street. She recognized another bakery, one she had gone to a couple times, and hey, a croissant was a croissant, after all…but wait. Something was wrong.
There was a man on top of the bakery.
Belgium felt a plummeting sensation in her stomach as she watched the grenade in his hand be thrown out into the air, and as if in slow motion, explode.
It became hell fairly quickly.
Belgium found herself face down on the ground as her citizens trampled her in order to run for cover. She felt an instant pain in her stomach, making her scream as waves of gunshots punctured the air, making her heave bile up onto the street. She heard the cries of her people all around her, the bullets clipping them in their bodies seeming like a wall of agony crashed down upon their nation.
She was vaguely aware of someone tugging on her arm, and she sat straight enough to see it was a small boy, the blood from a bullet wound in his leg staining his pants, his face contorted in misery. She held the little boy tight, taking off her headband to wrap it around the bloody mess, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The little boy whimpered and dug his nails into her coat, finally screaming in pain. She comforted him as he cried until she saw an ambulance and managed to carry the boy to it, passing him off to an EMT before crashing against the pavement, unconscious.
Belgium remembered only the painful memories as she lay in the hospital bed, the voices of the doctors droning in her ears like the ticks and tocks of annoying alarm clocks, the medicines they injected her with the alarms, giving her veins an extra jolt of energy before falling back into painful throbbing. She was visited by nations and humans alike, and soon her bedside was crowded with bouquets of flowers, teddy bears, and get-well cards. Norway came to see her again as well.
She could tell he still wasn't doing well, even after months of mourning the bombings. There was a bandage wrapped around his head, over one eye and down his left arm. His eyes had lost the glimmer of life, and were now soulless pools of blue.
He still had his cross barrette though. He stroked her hair and murmured comforts as the mourning of her people rang in her ears like the bells of Notre Dame. A little girl prayed for her mother who was wounded. A little boy cried over his dead sister. A mother feared for her husband.
She was supposed to be the nation. She was supposed to be strong. Why couldn't she be? Could someone drop her a hint? Was she not doing enough? She listened to the words of her Prime Minister and the King Albert and Queen Paola consoling the families of Liege, and thought of happier days full of sunlight and waffles.
-Dedicated to the families of Liege, Belgium, who today, 12/13/11 have faced a mass attack on their city. My, and many other hearts go out to you.-
R.I.P victims of Liege Attack, December 13th, 2011.
I hope you all liked this in a way, and hopefully you felt the same as I do. Please review if you want to.
Some of the similies came from my best friend's epic poetry slam.
Mon pays est en deuil.