Oh pissbuckets, how long has it been since I updated this story? A good while? Sorry about that. Final exams are coming up and I'm trying to keep up with all the classes I'm taking. My teachers SUCK. UGH. Anyway, I'm not going to burden you with my life's dilemma. I'm just going to get straight to the point: I AM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT. /dodges bricks.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Happy reading~
WARNINGS: Language, death, blood, etc.
Chapter Two
The long and narrowed corridor washed away by a dull grey light was stretched out before the two men, their footfalls reverberating off the cinderblock walls. The aged lamps—being the only source of light down there—flickered over them, giving off an eerie orange glow. Detective Davide Moretti kept in stride with the older but taller man at his flank.
"How's he doing?" questioned the former.
"Fine… I suppose. He's a strange one, though. He's the first inmate I've ever met that actually prefers solitary confinement," the warden replied.
Davide scoffed, "Considering that these guys you've got cooped up in here aren't exactly friendly, I don't blame him for wanting to be alone. I heard the others don't take kindly to those who hurt children."
"Well, you're not wrong," the elder said, stopping in front of cell 3405.
"When will we be expecting him?"
"Not for another hour or so. You've got plenty of time."
Davide gave a simple nod of acknowledgement, entering the prison cell after the warden opened the heavy metal door. He was consumed by the overwhelming darkness that enveloped the small room and the young investigator took a moment of silence, breathing in the musty and decaying stench in the air. The warden watched him with tentative curiosity, almost wanting to question but held his tongue.
"Warden," Davide began, "how close of an eye do you keep on your inmates? Do you observe their behavior?"
"We keep a very close eye on them—around the clock. Why do you ask?"
"Obviously not close enough. Darkness is not the ideal state to keep this one in," the detective flipped on the switch.
While the warden's eyes widened in surprise, Davide merely stood there, unfazed by his revealed surroundings. The walls were covered in it—blood. Words were heedlessly carved into the cinderblock (or were they scratched?) and were also written in the dried red liquid incessantly, overlapping each other.
GET OUT.
GO AWAY.
LEAVE ME ALONE.
Davide examined the room further, singling out more words and phrases, and ghosted his fingers along the words, feeling the grooves etched into the stone.
CAN'T RUN.
HELP ME.
FOLLOWS.
ALWAYS WATCHES.
On the floor near the wall were dark brown chips that were rectangular in shape but rounded off at the top. They were practically coated in the brown unknown substance. Davide knelt down picked up a few of the chips and placed them in his palm, inspecting them and immediately concluding what it was.
"What is it?" the man in the doorway asked.
Davide turned them over in his hand precariously, revealing the other side's smooth surface.
"Fingernails."
"F-Fingernails?" the warden had to ineffectively swallow his surprise.
"He scratched these words into the wall."
The warden could only stand there mutely, transfixed with horror, as Davide continued his search. What he was looking for he wasn't certain of but anything would be suffice at the moment. He needed to keep tabs on this guy as the last person assigned to it wasn't very good at doing so. He knew he shouldn't have swept this case from his desk and handed it off for another rookie to handle.
What the hell was he thinking?
Oh yeah. He almost forgot. That was his superior's thinking.
"The case is closed, he said. Don't worry about a thing, he said. He's locked away in jail and away from them. He's no longer a threat, Davide," the detective muttered darkly under his breath, mocking his boss's exact words. "They're safe and sound."
"Are you sure this guy belongs here and not a mental institution?" the warden fought to keep his voice steady. He was a figure of authority, after all.
"He wasn't always this messed up," Davide commented, tearing off the sheets and running his hands along the tattered and soiled mattress. "The murder of his sister hit him harder than most thought. She was his only living relative. But I'm sure you read all of this in the paperwork, right?"
The warden caught the sarcasm bleeding from the other man's tone and raised an eyebrow at the implied accusation, "What're you trying to say, Mr. Moretti?"
"You know exactly what I'm saying," Davide spat. "This man needs to be anywhere but solitary confinement unless he has murdered one of your other inmates but as far as I'm concerned, this has not happened. I don't care what his preferences are. Here, alone, in the dark, he has time to think and plot against the very people we're trying to protect and right now, I see no guards to watch him or any of the others down here as carefully you claim they do."
The elder of the two didn't so much as bat an eye.
"Now what I suggest you do is move his ass back to where more than one person can watch him. This, right now, is a walk in the park to someone of his intellect. He may act incompetent but he'll bring this entire place to its knees if you let him," Davide snarled and continued his search.
Running his hand against the mattress, his fingers caught a small rift in the mattress. He tore it back, and within the tangled, worn springs, a book lay amongst them—a needle in a haystack if one was not looking carefully enough. Maneuvering his hand through, he grabbed the object and pulled it out, studying it. The leather cover was worn, each tear whispering a story of how it came to be. Davide flipped through the pages that were yellowing with age, skimming the dates at the top of the pages.
January 12th, 2009—that's where it all started.
Davide was careful about going through the flimsy pages too hastily in fear of tearing them. Not bothering to read past entries, he reached the latest entry and his breath hitched in his throat.
CATCH THEM.
KILL THEM.
CATCH.
KILL.
All of it written in both blood in ink over and over again, tearing through to the other side and muddled by ink splotches. It covered the next few pages profusely. Davide snapped it shut and tucked it underneath his arm. He shot to his feet, shoving past the warden.
The detective pulled out his cellphone upon exiting the prison, and after dialing a number, he pressed it to his ear, "I want eyes on the Vargas family constantly and also on his brother. I don't like the feeling about this prison holding Marcello. They're much too lenient for my liking. I want him transferred… No, I don't care how long it takes or what you have going on already. This takes precedence. I want it done. Now."
There was no way in hell Davide was going to let this situation escalate.
He had to stop it before the first pawn was moved on the chessboard.
He rubbed the few hours of sleep from his eyes with his free hand and shielded those precious forest gems from the morning's warmth and rays dappling through the curtains. He was completely still for a moment, debating on whether he should get out of bed and make something to eat or just lay there and bask in the new day. The birds sang and danced on their perches just outside the window, filling the air with sweet, gentle music. The cerise petals of the blooming cherry cheers tangoed with the wind as it whisked them away on a journey beyond. The birds chirped on and he sighed lightly. He tilted his head to look at the figure sleeping beside him, curled into his chest with tiny hands fisted in his nightshirt.
Lovino played with the silk brunette strands protruding from the rest of the baby fine curls. The boy next to him of only five years didn't so much as budge. He breathed easily and evenly as if the weight of the world rested on anyone else's shoulders but his own in the most peaceful, innocent and vulnerable state a human could ever be in. The Italian's expression melted from its weary canvas to one where hope shone as a tiny beacon once more. Maybe things were finally looking up. Last night broke the six month record. Half a year—the longest time the nightmares had let Antonio be—went straight down the tubes.
Back to square one, the young father thought.
How long would it be this time?
Months?
Weeks?
Days?
…seconds?
A piercing cry of terror could shatter this beautiful morning in an instant and Lovino prayed for the contrary. Antonio needed his rest, if the dark splotches staining his eyes were any indication. Lovino placed an angel's kiss on Antonio's head. The child shifted and nuzzled into the warm body he was up against, finding comfort and serenity, mumbling something incoherent.
Lovino waited a moment to make certain that Antonio would be fine before he slid out of bed. He really ought to get breakfast started. The Italian moved cautiously and gently, easily loosening his son's grip from his shirt. Antonio turned over, now facing the wall, again muttering in his sleep.
"Daddy…"
Lovino hesitated to be certain Antonio wouldn't wake up. When the child settled, Lovino exited the room with stealth and precision, shutting the door softly. He headed down the kitchen and quickly fixed himself a cup of coffee to get him going. As it was brewing, Lovino quickly silenced the ringing phone before the house caught its echo.
"Hello?" he murmured.
"Ciao, fratello~! How are you this morning?"
"Feliciano, it's a little early to be this bubbly, don't you think?" Lovino cleared the rasp in his voice.
"You never were a morning person, fratello," Feliciano giggled lightheartedly.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You've told me that a million times and not a damn thing has changed. What do you want?" there was no malice in Lovino's words.
"Well, I was wondering if you and Antonio would be up for some company today. Sienna has been begging to see you two. She misses you both terribly—as do I."
"Antonio does, too. He talks about you guys from time to time. He wonders why he doesn't see you anymore but when I suggest that you come over he freaks out a little. I don't blame him, though. He really hasn't been doing well with anybody around—even with me."
"You don't think it'd be a good idea for us to go to the park together, huh?"
Lovino sighed heavily, "To see you two—yes, definitely. But to go to the park? I'm not entirely sure. With all those people around, it could be disastrous to him, especially with his behavior being as unpredictable as it is."
"That's true… how has he been doing, by the way?"
"Better—progress has been made. But he had another nightmare last night. It scared him pretty badly. He's sleeping right now and I'll ask him when he wakes up and see if he wants to go," Lovino rebounded, hearing the sadness in his sibling's voice.
"Okay! We'll be patiently waiting for your phone call!" the younger immediately hung up.
Lovino set the phone down, "He's a piece of work."
The Italian glanced up the stairs, wondering how Antonio was doing. He thought about it for a moment and ultimately decided that they both needed a break. While some sleep needed to be caught, Antonio needed it far more than Lovino ever would. He poured himself a cup of steaming coffee and plopped down at the kitchen table, burying his hands in his unkempt hair.
He hoped and prayed Antonio would fare well today. The last time they went out to a public place, Antonio had an anxiety attack which was common even when they were at home and it was just the two of them. They really hadn't done much after that. Antonio was in no mood to go out. They had yet to do any group activities that didn't involve just the two of them or where there tons of people. Groups made the child extremely nervous. Lovino took a long, drawn out sip from his mug. He had to be positive. That was the only way.
Mug in hand, Lovino travelled to the window to watch the sun rise and the sleepy town of Cuore wake up and embrace the day. He was quiet, letting his thoughts do all the talking. It seemed just like yesterday when Lovino found the sleeping child in the tomato garden five years ago, only two months old at the time in a wicker basket, covered with a blanket and whimpering to be held and yearning to be loved.
Accepting the infant into his life made the sun shine brighter in his dim world. The one he lost was found.
But… how did it all happen? Why did it happen?
What drove Lovino to say those dreadful words that ended their relationship and ultimately Antonio's life?
. . .
Lovino hadn't received a good night's rest in well over a month. He was quiet about what plagued him, however; he convinced himself that it was his problem and no one else's. Despite Antonio's genuine concern for his lover's well-being, the Italian didn't so much as utter a word.
Why now?
Why now of all times after all these years of putting them to rest?
Why were they unearthing themselves, rising up from their grave sodden with filth? Such terrible, terrible visions of that night—the feeling of the fire burning him alive and his body splitting in two… again… and again… and again… it never ended!
Why wouldn't they go away? Why couldn't they just leave him alone!
It was 12:47 AM on March 27th—a night Lovino would rather tear away from his memories. The Italian sat on the couch wrapped in a blanket to fight the chills quaking down his body and meeting with the "fire" searing up his back. Dark circles stained underneath his eyes and a weary expression was painted on his face. He shuddered visibly and nestled further into the wool fabric, bringing it up to his face to hide the oncoming tears of humility and overall terror. It was normal around this time of year. But he had yet to get used to it. Settling into a false sense of comfort proved to be a double-edged sword. He struggled to stifle his sobs lest he wake Antonio.
It was morbidly silent that evening. Not even the crickets or the wind raking at the land dared to shatter it. The weight of being fired from his job, the possibility that Antonio may be laid off as well, bills, the nightmares, and just life in general slammed into Lovino all at that single moment in time. The Italian's heart sank into his stomach where it dropped further.
What was he going to do?
What were they going to do?
Their relationship was falling apart at the seams. Every little thing was an argument that often led to something that lurked beneath the surface of the tension. Could nothing go right for him?
If there is a God, the Italian thought, He hates me.
He thought he had it right! He thought he had his life all figured out with a future chiseled perfectly into stone. The miniscule cracks meant nothing to the true masterpiece in the making.
"Lovi?" a new voice that accompanied soft footsteps were soon heard over the Lovino's distress. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I want to be alone," Lovino grumbled and ducked his head away, sniffling quietly.
"Why are you crying, Lovi?" Antonio approached slowly, concern shining in his emerald eyes.
"Leave me the fuck alone and go back to bed!" the other ordered, his voice breaking like the surface of a lake.
"But Lovi…"
"It's Lovino! How many times do I have to tell your ass that?!"
Antonio sighed, "Querido, you can talk to me. Remember that we agreed to always talk to each other about what's bothering us?"
"Nothing is bothering me, Antonio. Leave me alone."
"This is what I'm talking about, Lovi. You can't keep shutting me out like this. I love and care about you and I hate to see you in pain so I'm going to keep asking you about it," Antonio spoke gently and with assurance. Sure, his little tomato could be frustrating with his stubborn attitude but it was what made Lovino who he was. Antonio had to remember that. That's what he loved about Lovino. Once he made up his mind, there was no question if that decision was final. None at all. But there were some drawbacks to having such a willful partner.
Lovino was silent.
"Querido?"
"Stop."
"Lovi, I want to help—believe me, I do. I love you and I want to fix this. But I can't want it for you. I can't sit here and pretend like nothing's wrong—"
"Then maybe you should just leave!" Lovino shouted with red-rimmed eyes.
And the moment he uttered those words was the moment he wanted to take them back. As Antonio left the house for the final time that night, the moon had long since turned her back, leaving the road laid before Antonio dark and forbidding. The stars were unnervingly bright that night, begging the Spaniard to turn back.
Lovino fell to his knees.
Does this darkness have a name?
This cruelty, this hatred…
How did it find them? Did it steal into their lives or did they seek it out and embrace it? When did they lose their way? Consumed by the shadows—swallowed whole by the darkness…
Does this darkness have a name?
. . .
Lovino's eyes dimmed even in the morning's glow.
That's right.
He sent Antonio away.
He sent Antonio to his death—crushed between 4,000 pounds of mutilated steel. It was painless, they said. He felt nothing… they said. It was quick and easy—like breaking a toothpick. But there was pain. There was suffering. He had maimed Antonio's wonderful heart long before it ceased to beat.
It's my name.
He easily flipped through the pages, having spent the last hour carefully reading each entry with painstaking russet eyes. Each word, each little detail was jotted down in his mind for future reference. He had to know this man inside and out—every quirk, every thought was crucial to the case. He noticed the shifts in Marcello's penmanship from the times he had time to think about his writing and the times he was rushed. Honestly, if the detective didn't know any better and merely spared a glance, he'd say most of the words looked like chicken scratch—if he didn't know any better.
Davide reached the final entry which was from last week. And this, much to his surprise, was nothing like the neat, ornate curves that were recognized as Marcello's handwriting. This was scribbled, looking much like the handwriting of a first grader.
December 17th—
Voices… voices echoing in my head… I can't get them to stop! They won't leave me alone! No matter what I do, they won't go away! They're always watching me—I can feel they're eyes on me. I can't run away from them. They'll catch me and torment me further. At night, I can't sleep. And without sleep, I cannot think. The only thoughts I have are ones of blood and death and I am certain that the Voices are the ones giving me these nightmares. They are relentless.
"Catch and kill, catch and kill" is what they say to me. I needn't ask who because in my heart I know. I know who they're talking about. The two people who have caused me the utmost grief in my life. The people who caused the death of my beloved little sister. The people who murdered my sanity.
I will make them suffer.
I will make them pay.
There is no better way than to listen to your child's dying screams.
Catch them.
Kill them.
Hell in a hand basket.
