=w="... So I read a short story called The Sniper in class today. From the very first sentence onward I couldn't get Hetalia out of my head. I decided to jot my ideas down into Microsoft word. And since I've been a total troll and haven't put out a single chapter of anything else, I thought it couldn't hurt to put this out there. So... XD Here you go.
It was a chilly night. The city was cradled in an uneasy darkness. A dim white glow just managed to peek out of the wispy blue clouds that hung above. The sniper could only assume the light was from the moon. It wouldn't be God looking down upon them... God had long ago left the sniper and his people. God never appeared on the battlefield unless you had a bullet wound in your chest and you were rasping out your last breath. Or so our young soldier had heard.
The spasmodic sound of machine guns and rifles firing echoed off the cobbled streets below him. Yet no sign of life dared to rear itself in the street the sniper waited. His green eyes were close-set; he hadn't gotten wink of sleep all night, nor the night before that. He was running on nothing but adrenaline and luck.
He was gnawing on a scone. Anxiety had gotten the better of him earlier that morning, preventing him from eating anything when he was given the opportunity to do so. His stomach felt hollow. He felt hollow. He'd not heard another human voice all day. Just screams of agony that occasionally reverberated off the brick walls below him.
He was positioned carefully on a rooftop. He'd found a comfortable place to sit right behind the rooftop's largest parapet. His American enemy sat on the opposite rooftop, hiding behind the parapet parallel with the soldier's own.
His rifle was slung over his shoulder, and a pair of field glasses hung around his neck. He'd long ago promised himself not the use the field glasses simply because it made it easier to watch others get lead pumped into them a street or two away.
A flask of whiskey sat in his pocket. He took a swig of the burning, refreshing liquid and quickly restored it back into his pocket. Normally he didn't drink. He couldn't drink much without turning into an emotional, blabbering mess, but what was the point of dying if you had to die sober?
The sting of the spirit gave him a foolish kind of courage, and he took his rifle from his shoulder. He aimed it at the enemy's rooftop and fired. He then crouched behind his parapet once again, and listened as the enemy returned fire. His gunshots sounded sporadic, as if he'd been frightened and had to act quickly. Perhaps the enemy was… dozing…?
"Enough," our sniper muttered under his breath. He wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep. A somewhat sinister plan had been brewed in his sleepy head.
He took off his military cap. He placed it over the muzzle of his rifle, and took a moment to get his thoughts straight.
He felt a little disoriented for a moment. A bullet had been pumped into his right forearm earlier in the night, and the only first-aid he could perform was a little cleansing and bandaging. The bullet was still lodged somewhere in his bone.
Better now than never, he thought.
He raised his rifle just enough for the cap to peer over the low parapet. Hopefully, it could be seen from the opposite side of the street.
A shot rang out. His eyes darted to the cap above him. A hole sat through the center of the fabric, so he quickly tipped the cap over into the street below. He heard it click once it hit the ground. He let his rifle slant forward for a moment before he allowed it to fall as well.
He sank to a lying position behind the parapet, and heard what sounded like a sigh of relief from the damned American across the street.
Now was his time to take action.
He pulled out his revolver and aimed. The whiskey must have started running its course, for he found it hard to aim. The American's head was outlined against the black sky, making him an easy target.
The rooftops the two enemies sat on were at least 50 yards apart. Pressing his lips together, he took one last gulp of air, and pulled the trigger.
His enemy was down. He watched in a sickened, morbid fascination as the American slumped over the parapet before plummeting to the ground. A dull thud echoed in the soldier's ears.
"Done and done," he said, standing and stretching. He thought he felt a twinge of remorse, but that feeling was quickly replaced by the feeling that something was off. Something was telling him to go down into the street.
It won't hurt to look into the face of the man I just killed, he thought. Bless his foolish soul…
He descended to the street below and picked up his rifle, which lie on the ground in front of the building he had been sitting on top of all day.
Perhaps the whiskey was taking affect, because he could've sworn that the American looked familiar.
He approached the body for a closer look.
He stooped down on the cold ground and grabbed the American's shoulder that was still warm. He turned the limp body over just enough to look into the dead, blank eyes of his beloved little brother, America.
8'D Nice. Really nice. I'm not gonna put up with a whole review/rant about how OH MY GOD YOU EXPLAINED NOTHING WHERE THE HELL IS THIS, WHO THE HELL ARE WE TALKING ABOUT, AFJIDA;JG;OBIJ;OAG... because I don't give a flying turtle biscuit right now. XD I just typed this up because it was bugging me.
If you guys think this was good (ADURHUR NO ONE WILL, BUT STILL), then I suggest you read the actual short story. Just go to Google and type in "The Sniper short story" and there should be a place you can read the original short story. ADURHUR.
Review? 8D?