Well, that's what I tell everyone. That's what I tell myself. Nein, that's the lie I tell myself. I do not want anyone else to see me. So I say I am awesome. And at one point, I was. I inspired awe and fear in every being who saw me. Toni and Francis were with me; we were the Bloody Trio. They grew out of their blood soaked paths; from crusades to pirates to revolutions. I was with them, all that time. Then, there was the day I disappeared. All that was left were memories.
Bloody, aching, broken foot prints. The humans, the citizens, remember me through text books. Through the wars that ravaged across countries and so many, many years of awesome power. I think, at one point, I went a little insane. I was a child once, as all countries are. Young and inexperienced at the sentiment of sentience. Ha, if Bruder were to hear me think like this, I believe he would think me intelligent. Oh, the other countries see the cocky, arrogant bastard who hits on anything with two legs and who doesn't know what the world is like outside his younger brothers house. Hahaha... Poor, ignorant fools. I shaped an empire. I think some degree of intelligence and modesty would be necessary for such acts, nein?
Well shit, I think my mental state slipped backwards a few centuries... Well, the arrogant fool is a mask. I wear it to keep the idea of me having anything but an ego to keep the countries from seeing. Toni and Francis know. West knows. I'm pretty sure that Matthieu has figured it out too. I am a dark country, and I have led a path of bloody, broken and aching foot steps. Oh, history portrays me well enough, in that respect. But I didn't have to lead those charges. I could have sat pretty on a throne as my black boots soaked up blood of the fallen. No, I led the charges because I knew I had awesome power. I led those charges because I knew I couldn't have died.
Call that one a god complex if you want. I basically was. I led those charges because I was a child bred for war. Battle cries were my lullaby. Those journals, the ones I wrote so meticulously, at least in later years because I understood the sentiment of sentience, reflect that need. Sometimes, I find dried blood droplets keeping pages together. I don't remember if it was my blood or another's.
There are some days that I want to burn down that room; fill it with smoke and ash and listen to the burning crack of spines breaking and pages being enveloped by a comforting glow. Maybe I could roast marshmallows and bratwurst over it, if it wouldn't consume the house too and Bruder then get angry at me. No, those days I barely control the need to scream and cry.
Those days, the days I want to burn it all, all of those journals that file my every action and emotion, all of my idiocy and pride, all of my anger and hate and joy and pain, those days I want to scream until I can spit out blood with saliva and then not move from the grass that I want to lie in as I watch the sky, one hand over my face so to block out the idea of recognition. Those are the days I become extra boisterous. Those are the days Hungary hits me hardest, but instead of anger, she looks at me with concern. Those are the days West doesn't let me leave his sight for more than two minutes and Toni and Francis make sure at least one of them is near me. Everyone else just gives me a snort of exasperation as I make even America sound timid as his brother with how loud I claim to be awesome.
And I am. I am awesome. Not in the common, modern day idea of awesome, which implies that you are cool and have an amazing idea or action. No, I mean awesome as in inspiring of awe or fear or any other,intense emotion, usually fear. I mean it as a note of irony; I am awesome. I am feared. Or I was, until the day I was absolved. Dissolved into nothing.
The day I 'died'; the day Prussia ceased to exist and the rest of the world left me to stay with my younger Bruder and my two closest friends to purchase a headstone and write "Gilbert Beilschmidt Friend, Fighter, a Country Man". I've always found that last part ironic. Why yes, I am a Country Man. If you added a comma, it would be correct. I could laugh at that if it didn't cause me to remember all the pain I'd caused them. Every anniversary, we go out to the lonely little gravestone and they watch it, in silent, memory filled vigil as I sing one of my lullaby's. A lullaby to a gravestone that marks my "death". Irony? Maybe.
Then there are days that I remember all of my regrets. All the pain I caused and how much I loved it. I practically fed off of it. And the thing that scares me when I think about that, curled up in a leather chair just before the fire place with my little Gilbird on my shoulder, is that some days I feel almost nothing when I think of those days but the raw need to do it again. And the fact that if I were presented with the opportunity to relive those days, I would be hard pressed to not follow it.
But I believe to have grown at least a little bit wise in my many years of war and blood. My Vatti had found me and, even though to the other villages, before I became the Teutonic Knights, said I was a curse, he told me that I would be something awesome, something fearsome. And Old Man Fritz used to say, maybe a little bit offhand, possibly as a fact, possibly as a idea, or maybe even with the slightest tinge of fear, that my eyes would reflect the blood that would be spilt. And looking back, I can agree with both of thse wonderful, long dead men.
Don't peg me now, as a country that was bred for bloodlust and fueled by anger. I had joy in my life, I could laugh without a harsh, off key edge of malice. Currently, I would say I'm happier than I was when I was a country, or "alive", as the kids say. I have my two friends and my little Bruder. I have my violin, my flute, my Gilbird and I can lie still for long periods of time and hold my necklace close as I dare, trying to meld it into my flesh, trying to hold onto the one peice of the past that hasn't been wrenched away.
So, yes, I am happy. I also have pancakes. But you have no idea how often, how many times I have doubled over and laughed until my lungs hurt and I felt my abs get abs. Those are the days I'm free. Free of everything. And some of those days I am drunk, it's true. But that one is a feat; getting drunk is hard when you've had centuries to build up tolerance. So, really, only some of those days I am drunk.
There may have been days when I can hear the heavy, rhythmic 'thud' of boots and the steady 'clank' from weapons as lines of men marched onward. It echoes as a strange, hollow beat to my heart beat. I tap my fingers to that beat some times and wait for West to return before I leave, saying simply that I plan to go on a walk. I walk until I cannot feel my feet. But by then that hollow thud and steady clank has disappeared and I can return home before I lose my way. Again. Haha.
More recently, I have woken from nightmares screaming and calling and West is shaking me, telling me to wake up. It almost reminds me of the days when he would sleep with me, when we were so young, because something had scared him and the only way he could sleep was the steady rhythm of my heart as I hummed until we fell asleep. These days, I need to held onto him to be sure that I am real, that I haven't disappeared yet. The nightmares are not of my empire falling. No, that happened. No use to have nightmares of the truth. No, I dream of everyone turning away from me, of my body passing through theirs so to emulate my actual status of non-existence. It terrifies me.
The most recent thing I did was go to the museum with West; we went straight to the German-Prussian exhibit and talked about how much we had changed. Or, really, how much he had changed. When his phone rang, I was left alone, staring at the portrait of my last boss and shook my head, laughing softly. I knew the man who had painted that portrait. I clutched my necklace, the one mein Vater gave me when I was a child, and tried not to tear up when a kid asked their parent,
"What is Prussia?" Me. Memememememememememe. ME. I looked over; she was looking at my old sword, or at least, one of them. It wasn't one I cared too much about anyways. It gleamed in a way it hadn't since it was new, just out of the armory.
"A country that was dissolved and absorbed into other countries a long time ago, just after the Berlin Wall went up. There is no more Prussia today because it was no longer needed as a country." Oh, that hurt.
"Is it like dying?" Yes. Oh, so painfully yes.
"No, honey. Countries cannot die." Wrong. Wrongwrongwrong. NEIN!
"Oh..." the girl muttered, still looking at my old sword.
"East? East, are you alright?" West asked when he returned. I merely smiled and answered,
"I'm awesome." West went so pale he rivaled me. In no time at all, he had us out of the museum and in the car and home. Soon as we were inside, he pulled me close and said, repeatedly,
"Mein Bruder." and didn't let me go for an hour. I'm not ashamed to admit that I held him just as close and took comfort in the feeling of our hearts beating in the others echo. it chased away the cold clutches of Russia, the memory that has never really left me. No matter how big my smile or distracted my thoughts, it lingers.
I wrote this not shortly after West left me go. Or really, when I finally reminded him about walking Zeta and M. Haha, I'm writing in yet another journal. Its about to join the others in the room of memories. I keep them beside my bed, the ones that are empty I mean. I have four at all times, one on my bedside table and three more in the drawers. I can hear Toni and Francis calling my name from the kitchen. Lutz must have called them. Well, time to go. Maybe we'll finally go see that movie that came out, the one that Toni has been "dying to see".
-Prussia, Gilbert Beilschmidt