The dimly lit room smelt like blood, mold, and piss. The mold was probably from years of the building being ignored. It was probably going to be torn down soon. The piss was probably from hobo's squatting in the building, not realizing the bathrooms aren't functional anymore, but using them anyway.
The blood was Romano's.
Or, most of it was. Romano wasn't sure, but he was almost positive there was dried blood on the floor when he was dragged in earlier. The floor surrounding Romano was neatly splattered with droplets of blood, but Romano didn't see it, he could barely see anything anymore.
If Romano knew his day would've turned out like this, he would've worn a shirt he didn't like as much.
What made it worse for Romano, if possible, was that Spain knew what was happening to him, but didn't know where he was. The, fuck, Romano just called them a gang because he didn't know who they actually were. Terrorists? Mobsters? No matter. The mobsters had beaten Romano until Romano gave out Spain's phone number. The mobsters made demands, told them they had 'some guy wearing a beige shirt and a weird curl sticking out of his head', and before they could listen to Spain's threatening screaming at them over the phone, they'd hung up, never telling Spain where they were. Where Romano was.
They knew Spain was, well, Spain. A personification.
How much money does he have? They had demanded.
And what pissed them off, wasn't Romano's answer. Romano didn't answer. Romano laughed. He laughed until one of them kneeled him in the chest until he doubled-over in his chair, gasping for breath. Now Romano couldn't laugh. He actually couldn't breathe that well, either. Every time he took a deep breath, a sharp pain hit him in the side. It was a rib, probably.
They had beaten him over the head with something, and now his head was fuzzy and sight was almost blinded by blood. He choked on blood, he sniffed blood, he saw blood.
He wondered if he was going to die.
Romano was starting to wonder if he was going insane, because the thought of him dying almost made him laugh again. He pictured them throwing his limp body in the corner, then a couple hours pass, and Romano wakes up all, 'hi!' only it would probably be less 'hi!' and more 'ow.' but Romano could dream.
His arm was broken, he knew that, too. At one point they'd flipped the chair on its side, and since Romano's arms were twisted behind the chair, the side of it cracked the bone. His ankle might've not been broken, but it felt like it.
He was having a hard time remembering what happened before he was pulling into the alleyway on his way to pick up groceries. France and Prussia were at Spain's house. Romano had used groceries as an excuse to get away from the stupidity for a while, plus they needed milk and bread. It was a win-win for everyone.
Well, not anymore, of course.
Romano had only started to cry around the fifth hour, when the pain was getting too much, and he was alone, so he could cry about it. He didn't know which was worse, getting hit hard enough for bones to crack, or being left there to deal with it for the next few hours. He was in agony.
The blood dried on his face, and he could finally see.
He shouldn't have opened his eyes.
The blood on the floor was much more than he'd been expecting. There's no way that was all his. It was, wasn't it? Some of it was still wet. Romano felt like he was going to throw up, but only didn't because he didn't want a pile of vomit sitting in his lap for the rest of the night.
The rest of the night.
Romano wasn't sure why he thought that. Spain was coming, wasn't he?
As if on cue, one of the mobsters (terrorists?) came through the door. It was the one that had been the one to deal the most damage on Romano, and Romano immediately recoiled in on himself when he saw him enter. But, he had a phone in his hand.
"He wants to make sure you're okay." The mobster said, holding the phone out to Romano. It took Romano a moment to realize what he meant. Spain was one the phone. All the acceptance and calmness Romano once had was gone, and he desperately looked at the phone, then opened his mouth to talk, but he couldn't. Why couldn't he talk? All that came out were pained chokes, and then Romano remembered being kicked in the throat.
Sure, he might not die, but he didn't want to be a mute forever. He was about to cry again, but the mobster took the phone away and pressed it to his ear, "He's alive, he's just not saying anything." Spain was screaming more things over the phone, and Romano was too dizzy to understand it. "Ahh, fuck you. You want proof he'd alive? Fuckin' fine." And then the mobster lifted his foot and kicked Romano in the arm, hard. Romano's voice broke through the crusty blood barrier of his throat, and he shrieked in pain, letting out cries that he couldn't before, and the tears started to fall again. Vaguely, he could hear Spain's voice so loud that it was almost like he was in the room. He was saying something, screaming something desperately, but Romano didn't know if he was screaming his name or 'stop it.'
The mobster hung up the phone, then placed it back into his pocket. "Nighty-night." He said, flicking off the flickering light, and closing the door behind him, leaving Romano in the pitch blackness.
Romano cried until he passed out, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
Uhm. This is.
um
I have no explanation for why I'm writing this u _u I'm sorry.