Another short story made for Creative Writing xD again, sorry it isn't longer. And the ending was because I was bored and wanting it to be that way. I don't own Hetalia.
My life all started one weary morning as supplies were taken from an old, wooden cabinet. White cloth, scissors, a stick, a ruler, and a fabric pencil were set upon a tall table. My Italian owner, Feliciano was his name, was in fact the representation of Italy itse-err, I should say, himself, during the gruesome time period of World War Two; he was in need of a new surrender utensil to take upon the battlefield and wave proudly with Italian pride.
First, my body was marked as a rectangle upon the fabric and cut out painfully as the rest of my pure white cloth was returned to the cabinet for future use. There I lay limply as a rectangle as I awaited in anticipation my Italian's next move. Feliciano next took two of my sides, tying them together painfully tight to the wooden stick as so that I may be blessed with a handle. Pleased with his work, Feliciano smiled proudly and stuck me through his belt, as a holding place of sorts. There I rested, waving my pure snow white body slowly through the air.
Out onto the battlefield I was proudly carried, brothers of mine seen with the other not-so-brave soldiers fighting to protect the wonderful country of Italy. The war raged on and many gruesome deaths were apparent as blood was shed and the death toll rose.
My owner raised his flag proudly, waving it high into the air and screaming fearful cries of defeat and surrender. Despite this, the gun shot rang through the silence and I fell down beside my fallen owner. I felt heart-wrenching sadness as I realised I had failed my owner. I lay next to him in a horrid pool of dirt, blood, sweat , and tears, forced to spend the rest of my life there until somebody might possibly pick me up…