Thank yo uso much to those who reviewed the prologue! I hope you'll get the same experience out of this story as you do the others! I know it's short but we're just getting started - don't give up on me now! Tell me what you think by reviewing and more chapters will be out soon!

Each chapter will start and end with a journal entry.

Oh and one more piece of advide: Be prepared.

Happy reading!

Warnings: Language, violence

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.


Chapter One

March 18th, 2008—

Well, Feliciano got me this stupid journal for our shared birthday (it sucks having to share a birthday by the way) even though I'm already 14 and too old to be writing in a journal like some silly junior high girl. Mom says it can be therapeutic if I'm ever stressed out with school or with life in general as if I need therapy. Crazy woman. I don't think Feliciano had any of that crap in mind.

But I'm writing in it so it won't hurt his feelings and go crying to Mom and Dad about how mean I am. He's done it before so I'm sure he'll do it again. The kid's 12 years old, acts like he's five, and is favored greatly by my parents like he's some kind of saint. He can do no wrong while I am the mistake prone misfit. No matter how annoying he gets he's still my brother and he has a good heart. I'll never admit that out loud though. Forget that shit!

I got Feliciano a sketchbook since he loves to draw and is ten times better at it than I'll ever be. Feliciano is better than me at a lot of things—singing, music, drawing, you name it and Feliciano can do it. Coming from an artistic family isn't as easy as it looks—especially when you're not artistic. This stingy Austrian bastard of a teacher is trying to teach me how to play the piano. I haven't got the hang of it yet but neither has Feliciano. Maybe I'll be better than him at something for once.

That's it for now. I've got nothing else to say.

Lovino lifted the piece of floorboard and placed the journal into the hollowed out space next to his jar saved money. He closed the hatch and it fell softly into place. He sighed and combed a hand through his dark hair. That last line he wrote was an absolute lie. There was so much more he wanted to say, so much more he had been keeping cooped up inside his heart for so long. In fact, he felt some of the weight being lifted off his shoulders with each word he penned.

Therapeutic, huh? Lovino stared at his ceiling. Maybe.

An owl hooted outside his window before he heard it burst into flight. He often wished he had powerful wings like an owl or eagle to carry him away from this place. No one would miss him. No one would even notice he was gone. They had the glorious Feliciano to continue doting on. He closed his eyes and listened to the crickets' soothing evening song. No use dwelling on the impossible.

"Lovino! Dinner's ready! Come on down!" his mother, Felisa, called from the bottom of the stairs, her sweet voice ringing like bells.

His mother, Felisa, in all her beauty and kindness, was a coward in his eyes. She would sit and watch, and often turn her head, as her husband beat her eldest son. He continued to wonder why she didn't run away from her abusive lover. He didn't understand what she saw in such a man. His love for her was undeterred however.

"I'll be there in a minute," Lovino said back, burying his face in his pillow.

"Don't make me have to go up there and get you, boy!" his father's threat came out a snarl. "Get down here like your mother said!"

Boy. His father, Damiano, had been calling him that for as long as he could remember. He was surprised that in the early years of his life he hadn't been confused about his identity. Damiano had never called Lovino by his first name. But there were plenty of substitutes for just "boy" so it was suffice.

Lovino placed his feet to the floor and rested his hand on his shoulder. He cringed. The bruise was a dark purple in color even if it was from three weeks ago and it was the size of a baseball. The knot lying underneath his skin had the mass of a golf ball. He'd had much worse, however. Just like that one time—

No, don't go back there, Lovino thought, wincing as he remembered one of his more severe punishments. That's in the past now. There's no need to go back to the hospital. It's over.

"Fratello," Feliciano knocked on the door. "Fratello, you'd better get downstairs before—"

"Excuse me, Feliciano," came a gruff voice and there was a small rustle.

The door suddenly burst open and his father stormed inside, grabbing his arm roughly and aggravating the bruise on his shoulder. Lovino didn't dare make eye contact. His father would take that as an act of defiance and his nightmares would become reality once more.

"You still don't listen, do you boy? We already told you once to get downstairs to eat! It's not your birthday anymore, you goddamn freeloader! Show some fucking respect!" his father pulled him out of his room and shoved Lovino out of his room and the teen was lucky enough to catch his footing before he took too hard of a plummet.

Lovino smoothed out his wrinkled shirt and headed for the dining table, making sure to be rid of the fear starting to make its way onto his expression. Feliciano and his mother were already setting the table when Lovino approached. The teen made sure not to look too flustered. He didn't want to see the sorrow in his mother's eyes. Feliciano, however, glanced at his older brother before tearing his gaze away like a frightened animal.

"There you are, Lovino, dear!" his mother smiled. "I didn't want your food to get cold."

"Do you need any help, Mother?" Lovino swallowed thickly, feeling his father's icy gaze on him.

"Oh we've got it, dear. Thank you though," she shook her head, scooping the food onto large platters for it to be served. "Go ahead and have a seat."

"No, honey, you and Feliciano sit down. He'll get it," the dark haired man entered the room, placing a hand on his first-born's injured shoulder and squeezed tightly.

Lovino fidgeted unnoticeably at the pain searing down his arm.

"Damiano," Felisa sighed. "It's been a long day. Leave him be. Besides he just turned fourteen. Let him have a few days to himself to celebrate."

"Felisa, he needs to earn his keep. He does nothing but laze around all damn day. Get to it, boy. Tomorrow night you'll cook dinner and clean the house after school. And it better be done to my standards before I get home from work, understand?" Damiano said, shoving Lovino towards the stove.

Lovino didn't answer as he prepared the last of the dishes.

"Didn't you hear me, boy?" Damiano grabbed his son's hand and pressed it to the stove.

There was a loud sizzle and Lovino cried out in pain, trying to pry his hand away. The boy's skin began sticking to the stove in a matter of seconds as it burned past the epidermis and hit the nerves head-on. The sizzling became louder as it singed said nerves.

"Let me go!" Lovino didn't even notice the tears streaming down his face in rivers. "Please! Let me go! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Feliciano covered his ears to drown out his brother's pleas and Felisa turned away, unable to listen to her son cry. The youngest son wanted to cry for his brother. What was he supposed to do? Stop his father? There was no possible way to. When he had made such an attempt, Lovino ended up in the hospital for two weeks.

In another cry of agony, Lovino's hand was lifted from the stove top with a sickening tearing sound. Damiano grabbed Lovino by the front of his shirt and pushed him to the floor, stepping on the teen's injured hand.

"When I speak, acknowledge me, you little bastard. I won't tolerate any rudeness in my house, understand? You'd better pray that I won't have to make myself clear a second time," Damiano spit on Lovino's face and turned his back to him.

CLANK!

The pot of boiling noodles his father knocked over as he stormed away narrowly missed Lovino's face. The Italian teen could feel the adrenaline pumping through his body when he rolled to his knees and keeled over in anguish. He watched the hissing water for a moment, making sure it wasn't going to reach him.

Conjuring the strength and willpower needed, the young Italian stood on his feet shakily, desperate to control the rising dread. He bit his lower lip, focusing on that pain rather than the one in his hand. The coppery taste of blood soon coated his taste buds and he concentrated on that as well. His mother and brother stood there, as still as statues, watching Lovino endure another "lesson." For nine long years they've had to watch that man beat him within an inch of his life for reasons unknown.

Lovino loved them no less and to be honest, he didn't want them getting involved. He desired nothing more than their safety and if he was the only one being hurt, he was content. These bruises were mere mosquito bites if it meant they would live to see another day. He wanted true happiness, yes. But the means of acquiring it were still… unveiled. This darkness was familiar territory. And sometimes venturing into unfamiliar territory was scarier than leaving the danger at hand.

"Feliciano, go get the first-aid kit," Felisa spoke softly as she hurried tend her son's wound.

Feliciano nodded mutely before leaving the room entirely.

"Let me see it," Felisa held out her hand.

"No, I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry about it," Lovino held his right hand close, fighting off the oncoming tears and the pins and needles stabbing his entire arm.

"Lovino, it's going to get infected if we don't do something about it. We have to take you to the doctor."

"But what about—"

"You know he goes to the basement and doesn't come out until after midnight. We should make it back by then," Felisa kissed Lovino's forehead and aided the teen to his feet.

Using basic medicinal practice to fight off any immediate infection, Felisa snuck her eldest son out to the car, ignoring Lovino's protests that he could walk on his own. Feliciano trailed behind silently, too afraid to even speak. He closed the door quietly on the loud Italian music playing underneath the house.


"Are you okay, fratello?" Feliciano whispered in the darkness of their room. He sniffled quietly as he wiped away his tears. He didn't like seeing his brother this way.

"I'm fine," Lovino replied curtly.

"But your hand… does it hurt?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Feliciano's tone was a tad bit desperate now.

"Yes."

That was possibly one of the biggest lies Lovino ever told. In reality, Lovino's hand felt that it was ablaze and someone kept adding fuel to the fire, making it spread to his entire arm and rippling towards his torso where the pain subsided just subtly.

"I can go get you some ice or more medicine. The doctor said to apply it when it hurts!" Feliciano sat up, watching his brother's dark figure to see if he would stir. He honestly didn't like these short answers he was getting. "I wouldn't mind at all! I really wouldn't!"

"Feli; I'm all right. I'm going to live. It's only a second-degree burn—nothing serious. I don't need to put on the cream every ten seconds, okay? You don't need to worry yourself to death. You'll make yourself sick again. And you're going to wake Mom and Dad up with all your yelling," Lovino sighed, growing frustrated.

"It could've gone to third-degree, fratello! That's bad!" Feliciano whined, not hearing his brother's warning. Couldn't his brother see that he was worried sick about him? Why didn't he understand that? "I'm sorry that this happened to you, Lovino!"

"Drop it, Feliciano."

"Are you absolutely sure you're okay? Because—"

"What the fuck do you think, Feliciano? Huh! My fucking hand was burned on a hot fucking stove by the man we call father! How the hell do you think I'm feeling! For the record, so you don't ask again, it hurts like all to be damned!" Lovino shot up instantly, his eyes burning with the tears as he had put too much pressure on his right hand.

Feliciano's mouth hung slightly agape in a quiet gasp, the hurt evident on his face. In a small, fluid motion, the youngest Italian laid back down, muttering, "I'm sorry I asked."

Lovino mentally cursed himself for acting so short with his brother. The boy of only twelve didn't deserve it. He was only asking questions because he was concerned. And out of pent up animosity, Lovino snapped. He sighed. He didn't want to end up like his dad, so full of anger and hatred. But he knew of nothing else.

The teenager brought his legs up to his chest, locked his arms around them tightly and closed his eyes, humming a song quietly to himself. He instantly felt safe and secure. This was his own little bubble where no one could touch him. This was the only time he had such feelings.

March 19th, 2008—

It sucks having to learn how to write with my left hand. I'll be surprised if I'll be able to even read this chicken scratch tomorrow or whenever I decide to write in this stupid journal again. It might be a hard and annoying habit to pick up but I'll do it for Feliciano's sake. He draws in the sketchbook every day so it's the least I could do for him, I guess.

I can only pray that Father doesn't find this journal. If he does…

My right hand is in more pain than I could have ever imagined. Second-degree burn. Borderline third-degree. I'll have to be taking medication for more than two weeks. Lying to the doctor was a no-brainer. I'm used to lying—I've actually become very good at it. I've had to practice since I was six years old.

It wasn't always like this. We were actually happy once, as crazy as that sounds. I was able to call him father and he wouldn't frown at me or hit me. He would smile. And it was a genuine smile. Mother laughed back then, too. It wasn't forced. It was natural. Feliciano was still a baby at that time.

Do I put the blame on Feliciano for the way Dad treats me today?

That's a good question.