A/n: I did some research on the Bosnian War earlier today, and a story formulated in my head, basing around the war crime that was the Srebrenica massacre back in 1995. There is slight BosniaxMontenegro, mentions of SerbiaxCroatia, and I think that's it…
Just a note, before you read. I do not condone the actions of the VRS, or the actions in any genocide.
Xxx
It was a regular day at the world conference, consisting of pointless arguments and topics that simply never needed to be addressed. Bosnia had his place at the far end of the long table; he wasn't paying much attention, seeing that there wasn't much productive going on.
His dull green eyes glanced around the room at a few nations; Croatia was sitting there quietly, minding his own business. Montenegro was chatting quietly with Macedonia, and Serbia looked to be asleep, head rested on his arms and eyes closed. Bosnia looked away; there were better things he had to do than participate in this meeting. Nothing was getting done.
Suddenly, Germany slammed his fists on the table, calling for order in the room. He demanded that anyone sleeping woke up, and that they pay attention to a new topic, which he would propose if everyone shut up. Bosnia sighed and listened to the German; maybe something worthwhile would come from that man.
"I know we came to this meeting to speak of important things; it is 2011, for Gott's sake. We have better things to argue about than whose fault goes upon whom for events that do not matter. Now I have a video to show everyone; it has just resurfaced from former Army of Republika Srpska soldiers. This video," Germany walked over to a video projector and clicked a button. "Was taken in July of 1995 near Srebrenica, Bosnia."
Bosnia was now at full attention to the video. The film was rolling, and Bosnia could tell it had been taken by a Republika Srpska soldier on a handheld video camera. When he realized what he was watching, the memory played in his mind.
Zlatko was forced to sit on his knees before a large hole in the ground, his wrists tied together behind him. His hair was gripped tightly in a hand of the completely out of his mind Novak, who had been executing Bosnians for days. Zlatko watched in pure horror as a few bodies were carelessly tossed in the pit before him.
A young boy ran over to the pit in pursuit of his mother, who he didn't know was dead. A soldier of the VRS grabbed the child's arm, shouting at him and threatening him with a pistol.
"N-No! G-God, no! Don't do it!" Zlatko shouted. Novak, the Serbian representation holding him, laughed a bit.
"Shoot him." Novak ordered. The soldier listened, placing a bullet in the skull of the child.
"No! G-God dammit, stop!" Zlatko begged, tilting his head downwards and letting out a sob. These were his people; he couldn't help them or do anything for them. Novak had him held tight, and was forcing him to watch every atrocity.
"What was that, Pilav? You want us to stop? Too bad, my friend. This is so marvelous!" Novak was insane. Completely insane. The Bosnian knew this wasn't the Serbian representation everyone was used to; after years and years of war and agony, Novak had lost his mind. Zlatko was sad to say that Novak didn't know what he was doing, or what he was causing. Novak's mind was completely unwired; there was no way that he would remember any of this once he came out of his delirium.
"Wh-Why the hell are you doing this, Novak? Please, stop! I-I beg of you!" Zlatko pleaded, though he knew his words meant nothing to the representation that was killing his people.
Novak clutched Zlatko's hair tighter and forced him to stand, tilting his head upwards and placing a pistol under his chin.
"Perhaps you would like to feel like them, Zlatko? Tell me, would you like to be with your people?"
"I want y-you to stop this madness, please! I-I beg of you! I-I'll do anything you want, j-just stop killing them!"
Novak laughed and aimed the pistol at a nearby Bosnian, who he shot with no remorse right in the head. He undid the ties around Zlatko's wrists quickly, slightly confusing the Bosnian representation. He then shoved Zlatko over to another Bosnian, forcing the pistol into Zlatko's hand with a sickening grin on his face.
Zlatko shook his head and tried to resist, but the larger Serbian representation held him firmly, placing a hand over the other man's on the gun, forcing Zlatko's finger over the trigger.
"N-No, please… D-Don't do th-this, Novak…" Zlatko muttered. Novak's grin widened as he slowly pulled the trigger for Zlatko, shooting an innocent Bosnian in the chest.
Zlatko tugged his arm away in an attempt to stop Novak from pulling the trigger again, letting out a cry. Novak grabbed the back of his neck and forced him down to the ground, laughing.
"Isn't this what you've wanted all along, Bosna? Someone to blame? Well, here they are! These people are not innocent; they are rubbish!" Novak turned to the camera-holding VRS soldier. "Get in close and document this; I want it all recorded just so that Zlatko here has something to remember it by."
The Serbian cameraman walked in close as Novak dug into his pocket, grabbing a lighter. He flicked it until it lit and smirked. He held the flame on for what must have been five minutes before ending the flame.
"Just one more scar to add, Zlatko." He said, pressing the hot metal end of the lighter to the skin on Zlatko's cheek. Zlatko let out a scream through grit teeth. This wasn't the worst pain he had felt, but it definitely hurt.
Novak laughed; laughed at Bosnia's pain. He dropped the lighter once he was satisfied with the burn he had left, and then stood. Zlatko curled up, holding a hand over his cheek. Novak, with no mercy, kicked the cowering Bosnian in the side, earning a nice crack from the ribs of the other man. Novak then retrieved his pistol, aiming at Zlatko who was now rolled onto his back.
"This is what you get, Pilav. This is what you deserve." Novak then fired a shot right into Zlatko's right shoulder.
Germany paused the video and now, frozen on screen were a grinning Serbia and a cringing Bosnia. He turned to those at the table.
"These kind of crimes are rampant among humans, but among representations? We must stop this kind of torture. We cannot die unless our people are wiped from the face of the Earth. Representations harming other representations must stop. But we first must learn what causes insanity like what struck Serbia in 1995. Does anyone from the Balkan region have any comments or suggestions?"
Bosnia took a deep breath then stood. All eyes were on him now. His hands were flat on the table, and his tears dripped down from his face. He didn't care to wipe them away as he spoke.
"… I agree; we must learn to not harm eachother… P-People say that memories fade with time, but things l-like that are never forgotten. Th-They are never simply tossed a-away in a history book and left to never be seen again. Y-You would know, Germany. You had your time o-of insanity."
The other nations were shocked; Bosnia was always so quiet. He hardly ever spoke a word. For him to say such things and show such emotion was so foreign to them.
"Yes… Do you have any ideas on how we can stop the sort of insanity that afflicted myself in the 1930s and 40s, or afflicted Serbia in the 1990s?" Germany asked.
"S-Sadly, I do not." Bosnia replied.
"I do." Serbia stepped into the conversation, standing from his seat. "What happened there… What I became; what I did… I do not remember that night. I do not remember the Srebrenica massacre. But I do remember in 1996, I looked in the mirror… Perhaps it was a delusion, but I saw the faces of those I had killed. Bullet holes were in their heads, and I… I was terrified. All that day, I wrote on the walls. I wrote names. I wrote things in many languages; Bosnian, Serbian, Croatian, Slovenian, Macedonian… I… I know that my image nowadays has been forged into minds as a horrible, cruel person with no regrets or remorse."
"But I feel the need to say, that when a Union falls apart, you're losing everything. Russia and I would know… But when I knew the Croatian War was coming to a close… When I knew that I was soon going to lose; I snapped. I went to Bosnia in July and I did everything I could to make things worse. Yugoslavia was falling apart; theories that I was to become great were forever destroyed and my mind was shot. Logical thought never came to me; the man you see there," Serbia motioned to the paused image of himself on the screen on the wall. "That is what I like to call a remnant of my mind. When a nation loses control, their anger, spite, and everything negative comes out. That is what you see there."
"It is the equivalent of a schizophrenic episode in human beings. All my… my insane thoughts turned into a reality in 1995, and Bosnia was my target. He was who I chose to hurt… For what reason, I am not aware…. I would apologize to Bosnia," Serbia looked to the brunet man at the other side of the table. "But I am afraid that he will never forgive me."
Croatia now stood, staring at Serbia. "And what of every other massacre that was committed by Serbians, including you? Were those little flashes of schizophrenic insanity as well? You can't honestly say that all of the atrocities you've done by your own hand were all at times when you were mentally unstable."
Serbia took a moment to respond. "… You're right; I admit the fact that I have done some horrible things when my mind has been stable. But that," Serbia pointed to the paused image of himself once again. "Is not something I would ever be like if I were sane. You would know, Croatia. You lived with me for years; slept in the same bed until you got fed up with me and left."
"Don't you dare pull that into this conversation, you Serbian bastard." Croatia cursed, slamming a fist on the table and gritting his teeth in anger. Bosnia kept his mouth shut; allowing the bearded Croatian his time to argue with Serbia.
"Pull what in; the love we once shared?" Serbia smirked slightly. He loved to torment Croatia in front of other nations, though he would never admit it.
"Shut up!" Croatia snarled. "Don't you ever speak of that again!"
"I'll make you a deal; if you don't speak of murders by my hand and I won't speak of your former want for me."
"You son of a bitch; don't you try to make deals with me!" Croatia made a movement that suggested he was going to lunge for the other representation, but he was quickly grabbed by a nearby nation and forced to stay where he was. Serbia smiled slightly, a devilish look on his face that Bosnia knew all too well. The other man was starting to go out of his head.
"Perhaps all of those casualties never taught you anything, Croatia. Would more help?" Serbia questioned, grin growing enough to show the tips of white teeth. Croatia's look was now that of horror; he realized what was going on, just as Bosnia had moments ago.
"That's quite enough you two. I suggest you stop arguing." England warned.
"Or what?" Serbia asked. "You'll send the troops to our nations to keep the peace? Oh, or shall you have America do that for you? He'll be thirsty for another war soon enough! I will give one to him; one that he will regret forever."
"That enough! Serbia, listen to yourself! This is just sickening; you speak of war as if it's no big deal! You're completely out of your mind!" Bosnia exclaimed, voice silencing the room. Serbia chuckled a bit and took a cigarette from a pack in his coat pocket, lighting it with a lighter.
"Well, well, well… Bosna, are you getting deja-vu yet?" He asked, walking around the table and approaching Bosnia. Bosnia was frozen in place; he was having major deja-vu. This is exactly what Serbia had sounded like in 1995.
"Let me give you a quick reminder of Srebrenica, my friend." Serbia quickly, without much warning, took the cigarette from his mouth and jammed the lit end up against Bosnia's cheek before hurrying out. Bosnia stood there, a hand over his cheek. He then sat down in his chair slowly before letting out a sob, burying his face in his hands.
His memories played over and over in his head; the little boy who was shot in the skull, the innocent Bosniaks who he was forced to watch die. He didn't help them; he was too afraid of Serbia. He had been too afraid of the gun Serbia wielded at the time; he had been stupid enough just to sit back and watch, knowing that his words wouldn't do anything to help. He still spoke though; he was still foolish enough to talk.
He felt a hand on his shoulder; through tears he glanced up, recognizing the face of Montenegro.
"You should leave, Zlatko…" The other representation muttered. Bosnia sighed shakily, wiping his face with the sleeves of his suit coat.
"B-But Serbia… He's out there… G-God only knows what he'll do if I'm alone…" He replied.
"I'll go with you. Serbia won't hurt you if I'm around; he'd never risk something like harming me while trying to get to you." Montenegro explained. Bosnia nodded a bit before standing from his seat. He headed out of the conference room, followed closely by Montenegro.
"Ah, there's the little Bosnian…" An all too familiar voice said from behind the two. They turned around to see Serbia, standing in the hall, leaning against the wall.
"I was waiting for you, Bosna." Serbia said, smirking. Montenegro stood in front of Bosnia.
"Knock it off, Serbia. Just leave." He stated, in attempt to get Serbia to leave Bosnia alone. Bosnia stood back and watched as Serbia approached the Montenegrin, staring him in the eyes. There was a decent height difference; Montenegro was only five-foot seven, while Serbia was nearly six feet tall.
"Why do you protect him, Branko?" Serbia asked. Montenegro held his ground and responded sharply.
"Because this is wrong, Novak; and you know it."
"Is it really so? Do you not remember how he left you so heartlessly? You were crying when you told me he had left; did he not enrage you? Did he not hurt you?" Serbia's questions obviously irked both Bosnia and Montenegro.
"That was years ago. I have recovered and forgiven." Montenegro's voice was quiet now; Serbia's stature and state of mind were starting to intimidate the other representation.
"Do you truly think that you have forgiven him? Look deep in your heart; I know you still hate him for what he did to you, and for what he did to Yugoslavia."
"Sh-Shut up, Novak."
Serbia laughed. "You hesitate because it's true! You hate him, Montenegro! Crna Gora; you can't simply forgive him, can you?"
Montenegro, without warning, smacked Serbia across the face. The sound seemed to echo down the hall. All was still for what seemed like forever, until finally, Serbia moved. He stepped backwards a bit before stumbling and falling. He stared up at the infuriated Montenegro, eyes wide and mind snapped out of insanity.
"You have no right to say what I feel, Srbija." Montenegro said. "I am independent, as is Bosnia, as is everyone. I suggest you accept the fact that you are no longer such a threat as you were in previous years. This did not have to happen this way if you would have just retained some kind of self-control. This isn't you, Serbia. I know that like I know myself. Now get up and leave before you get yourself in worse trouble."
Serbia slowly got to his feet and silently passed the two other representations, heading to the exit of the building. Bosnia placed a hand on Montenegro's shoulder.
"Are you alright, Branko…?" He asked quietly. The Montenegrin sighed.
"I will be… And yourself? Are you alright?" He replied.
"I'll be okay… I just… I need to go home. I'll see you soon, alright?" Bosnia said. Montenegro nodded, smiling slightly.
"Yeah… See you soon, Zlatko."