After the not-so-difficult escape Romano had made from the World Conference that was being hosted in France, he decided the first place he should head to was Italy. It was one of the only safe places he could imagine his brother heading to, and he was sure if Veneziano was there, the first thing he would do was be making pasta in the damn kitchen or taking a siesta (something he honestly wanted to be doing instead of listening to a dozen or so other nations argue like three-year-olds, and actually trying to find his brother).
So off he went.
A note about both his and Veneziano's driving: it was pretty unsafe to drive on any highway if they were around. That was mainly because of their driving skills. Not to say they were bad drivers… unless referred to speed wise anyway (Japan could vouch for that any day). The Italy brothers were quite fond of fast cars.
This is why it was a record timing on the time it actually took him to get home- less than three hours since Romano and Italy both didn't believe in the term "speed limit" when driving around. It didn't make the elder Italian feel any better when he parked in front of his house, though. When crossing the border he hadn't been able to feel the presence of any other nation in Italy, which meant Veneziano hadn't returned home like he'd presumed (and secretly hoped).
Fuck.
That left him with so many options and nowhere to actually start. Double fuck.
"How am I supposed to find that idiota if I don't know where the hell he might've gone!" Romano growled angrily. He slammed his fists against the steering wheel.
Then, he gave a yelp of surprised and jumped when the horn blared at him in response to the assault. He swore at it in frustration. For a while, he just sat in the car, anger seeping from him in dark waves that would probably send chills down the spines of anyone who cast a simple glance in the seething Italian's direction. If he didn't lash out and violently attack them for staring at him in the first place, anyway. Romano was notorious for that too.
But that didn't matter. What mattered was finding the whereabouts of a certain Italy Veneziano and tracking him down to wherever the hell he'd run off too. What he'd do after he found him, well he hadn't looked that far into it just yet.
It really isn't like that idiot to fucking run off for no damned reason… We weren't even being chased by the tea bastard or that fucking scary-ass Russian bastard.
Giving a half-hearted sigh, Romano unbuckled himself from the seat and left his car, trudging up to the house he and his brother shared. He wasn't surprised to find the door unlocked when he reached the porch. Veneziano never felt the need to lock it because the house was secluded out in the middle of nowhere, no civilization close by for anyone to actually come and check it out. This annoyed Romano greatly. But he shook it off and pushed the wooden door open anyway. He took a step in the house, listening for the sound of other people who might have actually found this place and helped themselves. When he heard nothing, he relaxed slightly- faintly surprised by how tense he'd become in those seconds- and walked into their living room.
Where he froze almost immediately.
"W- what the fuck!?" his alarmed voice rang out.
The couch was flipped, hanging at an odd angle against one of the walls closest to the window. The T.V. had been smashed and smoke was billowing from the gaping hole in the screen. The window itself appeared to be shattered too, stained with a dark red liquid. Their coffee table had been smashed, the legs broken off and sprawled across a small portion of their red carpet.
A carpet that had been white when they'd left that morning. On edge, Romano rushed into the kitchen, looking to see if any more damage had been caused. The kitchen looked even worse. Pots and pans were sprawled across the tiled floors; the water was running in the sink, giving that room an eerie feeling. There was one pot nestled on the stove, the burner running beneath it.
Romano rushed over and turned the crank, watching the blue flame fade as the gas stopped flowing through the burner.
…. Veneziano didn't leave anything on when we left this morning… Dammit I told him there was always a fucking reason to lock the doors before we left! Why didn't I just do it myself!
The pot's contents smelled terrible. Whatever the house wreckers had been attempting to cook must have backfired terribly because the scent of it was atrocious and ridiculously unbearable. Romano grabbed the oven mitts and pulled them on, he wasn't sure if the handles would be hot, after all. He clutched the handles of the pot, and then slowly lifted it from the stove.
Why was that pot so fucking heavy?
Groaning, he carried the pot- and its mystery contents- over to the sink so he could clean it out. The stench wafted itself through lid of the pot, into the air, and to his nostrils. He almost dropped the entire pot to proceed gagging as the smell made his stomach flip, turn, and convulse all in one fluent motion.
"What the hell is in this damn thing!?"
He held the pot a good foot out in front of him, which was hard since it was heavy, trying to ignore the powerful smell that threatened to make him drop the thing and double over and chuck up his breakfast, and whatever else he might've had earlier that day. So revolting.
It only took him a few more steps to actually reach the counter beside the sink. He put the pot down, hearing a loud clang as its metal exterior connected with the graphite countertop. Had it added more weight since he'd picked it up, or was it just because he didn't want to be holding the damned thing any longer than he needed to? Probably the latter choice; it made more sense in his mind, anyway.
He moved the pot slightly, just so he'd be able to dump its contents down into the sink where they could flow down the drain if it was soup or some other liquid like food. It made a swishing sound.
Stopping, Romano moved the pot again. Another swishing sound. No, swishing wasn't the right word for what he was hearing. To be completely honest, it sounded less like the swish of something purely liquid and more like… something squishy….
Romano's stomach flipped.
The fuck is this?
He really didn't want to, but he knew he'd have to look inside that fucking pot to see what it was. Maybe Prussia or that damned Turkey had snuck into his house and put a dead rabbit or something inside the pot to give him the scare. Hopefully it was just a scare.
But would something like that have to smell so foul and disgusting? If it was fucking Turkey, then it most likely did have to, just to psych him out even more. He made a mental note to kick the Turk's ass the next time he saw him too, after he beat the potato bastard to a pulp first (wishful thinking on Romano's part, but you can't blame him for wanting to).
Dammit, focus!
Cautiously, he moved his hand and gingerly placed it on the handle of the pot's lid. His stomach continued to churn as nervousness kicked in. He had to find out what the hell it was, and he had to do it now before he chickened out. So Romano quickly snapped the lid off and peered inside.
He regretted it almost immediately.
"Che cazzo!?" he shrieked jumping back quickly, the pot lid flying from his grasp and clashing with the fridge.
The entire pot moved with him, tipping off the side of the counter and its mushy contents spilling all over the floor in a disgusting looking heap.
He crumbled to the floor, scooting as far away from the pot as he possibly could in the medium sized kitchen. His stomach did a flip, then a second one, and the Italian soon found himself clutching his gut as he began to heave. A disturbing mix of pancakes, orange juice, and the coffee he'd had earlier in the day lay in a brownish heap below him soon after. It shuddered beneath him.
This only caused the poor nation to continue into another round of gut wrenching experiences.
Sitting before him was a pile of raw, meaty looking flesh that looked like it hadn't been cooking all that long on the stove before he'd returned home. The meat looked fresh; a reddish brown murky color that looked like it had been tended to with a knife of some sort, with what appeared to be organs- possibly intestines from the looks of it, or maybe some liver- sticking out of it. Blood seeped out all around it, steaming ever so slightly and sticking to the flesh in some parts. It was throbbing ever so slightly and chunks of skin were still hanging on it in various areas. This was obviously not fucking rabbit meat.
Is that someone's fucking heart!?
The smell rose to his nose again, and he slapped a hand over his mouth and he swallowed sharply, trying to keep all the vomit down in his stomach instead of all over the floor. He already knew he had a huge mess to clean up (after he was done being terrified of the meat sitting on his damn floor).
Taking fast, shallow breaths, Romano pulled himself up and backed out of the room slowly. Whoever- or whatever- had made that obviously had some sick kick out of leaving people mentally scarred for life… or had they planned on eating that?
Oh my fucking God…
Common sense would have told him to bolt for the door the second he found himself in the living room. It would have told him to book it the fuck right out of there, jump back into his car, and drive somewhere- preferably the tomato bastard's house- and promptly beg for some help (or maybe just some comfort). Again, it seemed common sense had left the Italian. He moved over to his couch, which was still hanging by the wall, and carefully slipped his hand into the cushion. He pulled out the black revolver he kept hidden there and checked to see if it was loaded.
Of course it was; Romano always had these kind of things prepared.
For now, he'd put that intensely disturbing image at the back of his mind. Hopefully, it would vanish after the mess was cleaned up (no way in Hell was he going to enjoy cleaning that shit up) and he would have the Mafia look into that later. It could have very well been one of those fuckers who left it there in the first place just to spook him!
No…
Even if many of the people there did hate him, none of them were trained to do- or stomach- anything this sick.
Shaking the thought from his mind, Romano proceeded to head from the couch to the stairs that led to the second floor of his home. The house was eerily silent, which put him on edge. He tensed as he took a cautious first step on the stairs. Note that they just had to be wooden stairs, and made an audible creek beneath his leather shoes. He swore under his breath. Long seconds ticked by that he made no movement, no sound, not even his breath could be heard in his own ears.
He stood like that for what felt like a millennia, and when he heard no sounds he proceeded to continue up his stairs. Each step made him feel more paranoid, and he had the distinctive feeling that someone was watching him in the house. His own house for fucks sake! And the damned floor boards of the stairs and their creaking wasn't making his situation anything other than worse.
Each step only creaked louder, causing him to swear silently far too many times for his own comfort. Being sneaky and creaky wooden floorboards just weren't cutting it for the normally stealthy Italian. The Mafia would be laughing royally at him if they were watching his current situation. The thought of those bastards doing that only made Romano scowl in annoyance.
By the time he'd reached the top of the steps – and gone through a notoriously long list of both Italian and Spanish profanities, slangs, and other inappropriate phrases he'd picked up from other nations, he came to the realization that despite the feeling that he was being watched, Romano felt alone in the house. This, frankly, didn't really make him feel any better.
Fuck, I'm driving myself crazy here…
The feeling had planted its seed, and the seeds were already taking root in his senses, feeding his paranoia and making Romano feel more fidgety and uncomfortable than he'd previously been a mere ten seconds ago.
Focus dammit… I still have to find my idiot brother!
Romano took a few experimental breaths, his finger floating idly above the trigger he felt so anxious to shoot at someone – or something, if the chance arose. Though he didn't really want to find some psychotic fucker in his house… who would really, those bastards were fucking scary. Still overly cautious- Romano moved down the hall towards the two bedrooms and the bathroom that sat on the second floor. The bathroom door was agape, light streaming through the thin crack out into the hall. He moved silently; if someone was in there, he didn't want them to know he was there. But the closer he got to the door, the more unnerved he felt himself get.
Someone's in that fucking bathroom. Even if the damned house feels alone, there's someone in there dammit!
He felt sweat beading down his forehead at that point. Was he nervous? Well of course he fucking was! There was someone in his house, in his bathroom for fucks sake! He had every right to feel nervous about that fact.
Romano found himself a few feet from the door, his steps growing sluggish as he really did not wish to enter the bathroom- who knows what sick thing he'd find awaiting him in the thing!
… Then again, he'd have to clean up whatever was in there anyway…
Giving a heavy sigh, Romano move stood at the door that was still hanging ajar. With his back pressed against the wall opposite, he pushed his leg out, and in a quick, fluent motion, he kicked the door open, ready to take on whoever or whatever was inside.
The door swung open, and his breath caught in his throat.
And any courage he might have been able to muster up vanished at that exact moment as a bloodcurdling scream elated from him.