My Brother and I.
Warnings (Ch. 4): Alcohol use, self-harm, depression, language, chloroform and Russia.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia in any way, shape or form.
For once, you're left home alone. Well... Almost alone. Your father, Arthur, is out of the house, apparently on a 'business meeting.' Even you know he's just spending time with one of his latest toys. Francis, your so-called 'papa' is out once again, getting drunk with his two friends - Gilbert and Antonio. It bothers you a little that your father is getting drunk with your brothers' friends, but it doesn't really matter. Alfred is sleeping over at Kikus' place, but it's fairly obvious that there's more between them than just friendship, despite the arguing and fighting they went through as children.
... And you, well, you're at home, sitting on the kitchen floor, feeling nothing close to safe, despite the fact that I'm surrounded with knives. Serrated, non-serrated, cheese knives, butter knives, self-sharpening, butchers' knives - almost every type you could imagine, minus a machete. 'One of those would be nice...' You think to yourself blandly as you put your iPod into Alfreds' iPod dock on the kitchen table, setting it to shuffle as you sit before your laptop, sighing slightly, not knowing what to do. After about half an hour, you begin to get bored, so you make yourself a milkshake.
... Mape syrup flavour, of course. You quickly gather the ingredients, throwing it all together before throwing the product into the milkshake maker, retrieving it and drinking it greedily, ignoring the pain as you swallow down the concoction.
Another half an hour passes and you're beginning to get very upset. You don't know why, but you can feel it - walls closing in on you, a thumping noise that you barley register as the bass of your music getting louder and louder, closing in on you, threatening to swallow you whole. You quickly get up, wondering over to one of the many drawers in the kitchen - a top drawer. You open it, ensuring that nothing moves as you look over the contents. Malabu, Wipeout, Midori, Vodka. You close your eyes and mutter incoherently under your breath as you grab the latter of the lot, the bare look of the bottle making you shudder hard, eyes clouding over a little. You grab out a bottle of lemonade, pouring a small amount of the Vodka into a cup, filling the rest with lemonade, marveling as the bubbles very quickly disappear, heavily resembling water. You return the two bottles to their respective homes as you go back over to your computer, taking a generous sip of the liquid, groaning softly as it flows down your throat, the unique taste combination making you shudder.
You'd never really been one for alcohol, but tonight is an exception. You down the remainders of the cup fairly easily, returning to the drawer again, taking out the bottle of Russian water once more, diluting it once again with lemonade, although more of the former and less of the latter. You down that again, groaning a little as the world begins to feel a tad fuzzy around the edges, everything seeming funnier than it is, everything seeming soft to lie on. You sit on the floor, surrounded by knives with the bottle by your side, music from your iPod long being blacked out as white noise.
Half a cup of Vodka, half of lemonade. You down it with no problem, your glasses on the floor beside you, a knife slicing along your exposed thigh as you take another mouthful. Every time, you use a different knife - if you use just the right one, maybe you might die. You'd finally be free - the abuse, the violence, the swearing, the hate, the rape - away from it all.
You make yet another cupful of sadness - 3/4 Vodka, lemonade becoming less and less in quantity as the night progresses on. You smile widely as people begin to come see you - Prussia, Germany, the Italy brothers and Japan - they all come to say hello. You clamber to your feet as blood runs down your thighs, laughing, singing and dancing happily as they dance with you. You laugh loudly as the coloured lights around you begin to flash, laser lights bouncing along the walls as the music thumps through your ears.
You try to open your eyes, said violet-blue orbs widening as you realize what you are - you're all alone again. You fall to your knees, sobbing, the world very quickly fading to black around your teary, shaking figure. You reach blindly for the bottle one more, downing a straight mouthful of the burning fluid before everything goes black, the taunting face of your papa fading out of your vision, his eyes gleaming as he raises the knife above your head.
"Privet, Mattvey."
You scream.
"... Mattvey? Are you okay, da?"
"I-I... I'm okay..." You mutter, staring at your feet.
"How has you been?" The man smiles, his childish features making you cringe visibly.
"Good..." You mutter, looking up at him, eyes locking with his, a perfectly fake smile gracing your lips - a believable one, at that. Your eyes widen a little as the man gasps, taking your face between his hands, one hand on either cheek.
"Mattvey. What happened?" He asks darkly, his voice lowering to a growl as he looks you over, violet eyes darkening considerably as he begins to count your marks.
"E-Eh? I-Nothing." You say, quickly pulling away from the man, madly blinking back tears.
"Nothing doesn't cause bruises... ~" The man grins from ear to ear, giggling to himself as his teeth flash in the faint yellow lighting, eyes wide and sparkling.
"Y-Yes it does!" You squeak, legs forcing themselves to move against your better judgment, sending you flying through the locker bay and out the door, the Russian man running after you, his footsteps getting closer and closer by the second.
"Mattvey." The voice is whispered in your ear, tears running freely down your face. "You know you can't escape me..." Strong, muscular arms are wrapped around your waist, a startled scream escaping you as you're picked up off your feet, legs dangling loosely as you splutter for breath.
"H-Help!" You manage to cry out, the man snickering as his face becomes shrouded by his long bangs, eyes seeming to glow through them.
"Nobody can hear you... Nobody cares about you..." He mumbles, setting you down, kicking you hard in the back of your knees, legs temporarily out of action as he grabs you by the hair, dragging you away as you scream and cry out for help.
"P-P-Please, I-Ivan, let m-me go..." You sob uncontrollably, feeling your hair being pulled follicle by follicle from your scalp.
"Nyet. Not until you suffer..." He mutters, throwing your bruised, bloodied body into the back of his black van, crawling over your body, sitting over your waist. Your eyes widen fully as you see him draw out a dirty, damp rag, your breathing immediately becoming ragged.
"N-No, p-please, no!" You can say no more as the rag is placed over your mouth and nose, making muffled protests against the man as he giggles, holding it firmly in place as he watches your consciousness slip away from you, minute after minute.
A/N: I really enjoyed writing this chapter, despite the fact that while writing it, I was pulling a Canada – although there's only so much benefit drinking Vodka mixed with lemonade can do, I find it helps me focus a little more so that I can write. Go figure.
I also think that I should mention that for the first 8-10 days of the holidays(I can't be bothered counting and tipsy maths sucks), I'm not going to be posting as I'm away with my awesome special friendy. I probably will be able to throw something together while I'm away anyways, however, so I'll post when I get back.
Please don't hesitate to rate/review and/or ask me any questions, whether fanfic-related or not. c:
Laters,
-Nimu.