A/N: Hey, I'll start of with saying this. I am by no means a fanfic writer. I can spend hours reading it but writing it is a different story.
So why am I here? I friend of mine posted a 100 themes challenge somewhere and I thought I might as well give it a go. Originally it was to cure my own boredom but then I thought in my sad little mind that maybe someone out there could get some enjoyment from my little drabbles. Each chapter will be a drabble and I cannot say if I will finish all 100 themes, I'm just floating on the wind~ *shot*
Anyway, first theme: Death. My personal head cannon on what the death of a nation means. And poorly described descent into madness? Enjoy! *hides*
My name is Prussia.
He stared at those words, slowly tracing his finger along the curves of the letters. Over and over again, he stared at the ink dying the paper below him like a man possessed.
His hands slid to the edges of the paper, almost like he was caressing it. This was his rock, his hope, his everything.
"My name…my name…" he whispered, his breath coming out in shaky gasps. With this, he could still feel like he was still someone.
He raised the paper to his lips and gently pressed down on it. Tears of frustration, anger, sadness, leaked from his eyes. The paper crumpled in his hand as he made a fist.
For months his memory had slowly been crumbling into nothingness. Wars had become all one big blur to him, as with his rulers. He could no longer recognize most nations. All had become mere shadows in his mind.
His body had begun to feel empty. Nations always felt the buzzing and rumble of their people but he felt nothing now. He'd fool himself into believing he felt them but it was a lie. He felt nothing.
His body and mind were becoming human.
But his name; every morning he wrote down his name until it was the only thing he could remember about himself. His age, his history: nothing. Yet, he knew who he was.
He crumpled to the floor and slammed his fist down, screaming. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. He was too important to be forgotten, not that he knew why he was important but he knew it. Sobs racked his body. Desperate; heart wrenching sounds erupting from his quaking form. He didn't want live like this. He didn't want to be a empty hollow of whoever he had been. He sat there, sobbing and screaming for lord knows how long, eventually his body could take no more and he surrendered to darkness
When he woke there was a man standing above him. He had hair as blond as could be that had been slicked back, with eyes as blue as the sky. His intense expression gave him and air of orderliness. The man knelt down next to him and helped him sit up. He felt dizzy and his throat hurt like hell: so he didn't question who the strange man was. Besides, he had a strange feeling he had met him before.
"What is your name?" the man questioned quietly. His tone was strange, like he wasn't asking for himself but to see if the other man knew. The thought was ridiculous of course, who would forget their own name?
He surveyed the kneeling man and replied in a scratchy voice, "My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt."
My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt.