The Insane Accounts
A Hetalia story.
Please note there are several references to a wonderful book's revelation: Tuesdays with Morrie. I do not take credit for the references of glass being our lives and the handprints left on them. I also don't take credit for the Why the Caged Bird Sings references either.
This is a slight Human AU.
Hong Kong: Why the Freed Bird Doesn't Sing
One form of insanity is created by the various handprints left along the glass of our lives. At a young age, our glass is transparent and spotless. As said child grows, the glass becomes more and more opaque, smudged by the heavy hands of silence, neglect, and abuse. Some marks are heavier than others, causing it to fraction the light until it can no longer filter through the glass. This can also be related to the factors affecting the heart. If someone is so affected by the toll living has taken on them, then there is no light present and darkness shrouds them. They are so overwhelmed by those handprints blocking their spiritual escape that they slowly start to break down, eroding away every bit of glass between them in the light.
The outcome wouldn't be what they had hoped for.
That glass, once broken, cannot be reconstructed. By removing the layer protecting them, they've snapped the tendril connecting them to an earthly understanding. Instead of light being present, the darkness becomes even more crushing. It's easy to lose oneself like this, trapped in such a despairing state that they cannot be freed from. Like a bird locked in a cage, singing for a doomed salvation, the cage can't ever be unlocked. Desperation is an adrenaline rush that can lead to regrettable decisions, like the one to break the glass of life. It is as if when that first crack splintered the surface, that very life came to a stand still. It couldn't move forward or backward, but is eternally forced to remain as it is in that darkness. Despite being neglected for such a long amount of time, it can still manage to get lonely in the darkness; a darkness accompanying a certain country, rocking him back and forth in insanity's gentle arms. Unable to recover what he originally was, he is forced to suffer through the darkness alone until it becomes absolutely unbearable.
Then he decides to act.
Wrapping up a small silver pistol, as cold as his heart, in a piece of fabric, he stows it away in the waistband of his pants. He has a plan, ready to be executed the moment his target comes into sight. He would make the people pay that caused him so much grief. He would force them into their own despairing darkness, just like he is stuck in. It is a twisted sort of revenge that only makes sense in his mind. All that really makes sense is that he is suffering and they are not, and that would soon change.
His spiteful eyes train onto his face, reflected by a mirror that ironically reminds him of that pane of glass no longer present in his life. Maybe if he still had it, even in all its hand printed glory, things would be different. Perhaps he wouldn't be capable of his ideology. Maybe he wouldn't have the sick idea in his head in the first place.
If only people didn't have to die.
Pale and ghastly in the mirror, his hollowed irises do not flicker with life. They only stare forward, wide with a sense of determination and craze. No matter what happens, no matter the cost, he would not be detoured from his mission.
He is a madman on a mission no one is aware of.
Patting his face once, then twice, he considers how real the situation is. The face he sees does not feel like his. It is almost plastic and foreign, a false skin stretched across his body. He is a soul in another man's body he feels, although it is quite the opposite. He is a different soul in a body, manipulating it to do the things the original soul would not do. His fingertips graze his skin as he trails a finger to one of his lifeless ugly eyes. They sicken him to the core, mirroring every hidden emotion he wanted to hide from the world. He doesn't want anyone to know how sick and twisted he has become.
Not yet anyway.
In good time, his insanity would become visible in the darkness separating him from other people.
For one moment, he considers puncturing his eye socket, gauging out the eyes that gave away his intentions. He presses his finger to his pupil, burning it with his touch. His eye waters, still unable to falter. He readies to plunge his index finger in, before abruptly retracting. He needs both eyes for his duty. It could wait until later he decides.
Only a crazy man would consider destroying his own eyesight, and a crazy man Hong Kong is.
He opens the door, casting one last still glance on the reflection of the false person. He almost feels like shooting the glass, shattering it just like he did to his sanity. Again, a twisted sense of sensibility returns to him. He needs the bullets. Countries can't go down with just one after all. He shuts off the light, encompassing himself in the darkness of his house. He likes the dark now. It is native to him. At first, such a place was terrifying. But when you are trapped in an unescapable cage, you learn to appreciate what you have, and what he has is darkness. Hong Kong begins his adventure to his first destination and victim.
China.
China had left the first handprint of neglect that lead to the chain reaction. He was the beginning of it all and therefore by Hong Kong's justification, was sentenced to die first. There are other people much more deserving of a bullet, but they would come later.
Locating China's house is easy. Having spent most of his dreadful childhood in his custody, he knows the layout of the house like the back of his hand. He knows where China would be too. If he attacked at the precise moment, China would not counterattack him, which gives him the ultimate upper hand.
His footsteps pound against the wooden floor, echoing throughout the loose panes to create a resonating click every time he takes a step. It thumps like a heart still alive, unlike Hong Kong's. His chest has long since gone numb, giving him no access to the only other thing that makes him human. He has long since lost the first quality, a sane mind, making him more of a mechanical being than a person with emotional attachment to the world. This is the thing monsters are made of.
Hong Kong is defiantly a monster.
Pale rays from a feeble moon flitter through the wallpaper of his windows, providing little leeway in the darkness. It is a traditional home with traditional antiques hanging about, like the wind chimes dangling just outside the door.
Hong Kong does not pause, not for a second as he crosses the threshold. Humanity does not return to him, bringing forth reason. Instead his determination hardens like his eyes and will stand firmer than that noisy wind chime.
His first steps outside are crisp and brittle, light and subtle. The moon casts its pale rays on his equally pale skin, making the anorexic country appear ill in the moonlight. He is a doll, every step just light enough not to be heard. His features have softened and also darkened, retaining the blank look present on his face. At this time, he looks his most frightening. He is in his natural habitat, the darkness. He excels in this area. There is no way his distorted plans could fail tonight.
The trip to China's house is brief, like a short commission before the opening act. The rustling of nearby trees covers up the already silent Asian, making his decent on the house unannounced. Despite being so close to committing a heinous crime on his older brother of all people, his emotions do not stir. He feels nothing, even when he forces the door open and enters the house. His soul remains unmoving, even as he removes the package and opens it up, clasping the gun tightly in his hands. The darkness of the house contracts against the pigment of his eyes, causing them to appear as two bottomless pits of obsidian; a madman truly capable of a terrible crime.
There is no rebuttal from the floor like it is in Hong Kong's house. He can ease all his weight on each step and still manage to pad quietly through. It is almost too easy, but who was he to complain. He is going to achieve the revenge he so sorely sought after. Any complications as a result never cross his mind. The last part of Hong Kong only encourages the slaughter. It was defiantly not human.
It's hard to imagine that the events of that night could have been altered by one boy half way across the world. There is one person Hong Kong begged for when he was entering his last stages of sanity. He prayed that they would come and rescue him. If they had, Hong Kong would not be a murderer simply waiting to pull the trigger. Maybe if that sole country he desperately reached out for, reached back, then he couldn't be capable of this now. But as we know, that person never came, because now Hong Kong is insane. That country is unaware of it though. He just continues each day, breaking up Denmark's fights and ignoring Norway's pleads for him to call him big brother. Iceland could have been his saving grace, but he never came.
Maybe he'll come in the morning, when he learns that Hong Kong murdered someone. If the Asian does this, he could gain the attention he has lacked most of his life. That seems pretty good too. All the more reason to put the barrel to China's head and pull the trigger.
A shattered fragment of the person he used to be, Hong Kong slides the door to China's room open. There laid the country himself, deep in a peaceful slumber he is no longer capable of; it reeked of too many memories and considering most of his were pitiful, it normally transformed into nightmares. For a moment, the madman feels a pinch of something: jealousy. But it is gone as quickly as it came; vanishing like a useless object we are no longer interested in. The true prize lies right before him. Hong Kong levels his arm with his neck, aiming the gun right at his head.
It isn't close enough.
He wants to feel his skin against the barrel. (A/N) He wants to feel him quiver as he stares into his lifeless eyes, knowing his death is inevitable. Taking a step forward, dropping to one knee beside him, he shoves the gun right between his eyes, jolting China awake. The moment his eyes snap open, so full of life and of purpose, Hong Kong pulls the trigger.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The three bangs falter through the night, sounding more like a crashing sound instead of gunfire. The blood ribbons from his forehead in thick ruby strips, slapping Hong Kong's skin with such a vibrant color until the evidence of his tryst is apparent all over his body. China doesn't even have a chance to blink. Like a candle flame, his life is blown out by the madman until only tendrils of a previous fire remain. Hong Kong cracks a worthless smile, meaning absolutely nothing to the boy that does it. Insanity does not cause him sheer happiness. It does not ease his suffering; it only heightens it, making it even more unbearable. The darkness is like his pain, heavy and dull, the only emotions remaining in his mind.
He kicks China's body over, pressing him face first into the pillow until it turns the fabric of it red. Despite being so criminally insane, he doesn't want to see his eyes. Eyes, with their unguarded reckoning are what bother him the most. Just like the feeling he received at the sight of his own irises, he could not bear it. It causes him the tiniest yet most undeniable spark deep in his heart, one that could allow his plan to fall apart: regret.
Holding the barrel of the gun to his face, he feels the nicked metal caressing his face with cold strokes. It stings his nose from the stark contraction of cold against the heat of his skin. It doesn't help to numb him from the pain. So, to remedy this, he retracts the gun, only to hit himself with it.
Repeatedly.
He wants to forget. He wants to just forget those eyes that resembled his own, all the way to the lifeless core. He wants to erase the memory, make it go away, make it fade until there's nothing.
Nothing at all.
Mid-swing, he stops, the bones of his facial structure throbbing from the assault. The darkness overlaps his mind again, sweeping away the doubt and regret to create a clean slate again. With his insanity, there ironically is a redo, although it only reintroduces his insanity. He can never go back any further than that.
Taking a deep breath, Hong Kong turns away from the body, remembering the next step of his plan. With China gone, his next victim is awaiting a few oceans away. He glances at the doorway.
And into a pair of eyes.
Hong Kong's body seizes up, his fingers clenching the gun so tightly that his knuckles are just as pale as his face. His plan would be taking a little detour, considering he has been caught in the act by none other than Japan himself. He hadn't considered another sibling staying with China. He had only assumed.
He assumed wrong.
Japan is speechless and frozen. In the moonlight his eyes are wide with shock, scared beyond any doubt. The flicker of his life, visible in those eyes, is clouded with misunderstanding and sadness. For a moment, Hong Kong considers surrendering to the owner of those orbs, knowing that he is capable of taking care of his broken heart and his broken mind. Japan could help him, save him, protect him, and care for him. But then Japan's eyes harden in defense, giving his eyes that lifeless gloss to it; the very thing that ticks the madman off.
Before Japan can grab a defense, Hong Kong whips his gun across his face, causing his sibling to stagger backwards. He pushes that away, denying the very fact that he is also related to the man he plans to kill next, needing him to be silenced in order to carry on.
Japan darts for the guest room, undoubtly where he is residing, along with his katana. The gun trains on his figure, coordinating with his movements precisely. He pulls the trigger, only for the backfire to cause a spark of pain in his wrist. His anorexic behavior has caught up to him. He has sprained his wrist. Japan manages to avoid the bullet, diving into the room to avoid another. He yanks his katana from its sheath, before taking shelter behind an overturned table. Hong Kong, slightly stilled by the pain coursing through his arm, slowly switches the hand that holds the gun. He wasn't able to fluently use both ligament, but he could control his left long enough to get a shot off. That's all he needs, is a chance; a chance to worsen the situation even more, marking his family not as brothers but as homicide victims.
I suppose insanity does that to you.
With his back up against a wall, Japan considers contacting someone. His phone lies idly on the floor beside his bed, but it is in direct line of the doorway. It is risky, but if he is fast enough he could have the phone and be out the window in less than ten seconds. Maybe fresh air could clean the confusion fogging his mind, a result from his inability to comprehend Hong Kong's strange behavior. He takes one breath, and then two, before taking a quick jab for his cell phone.
Hong Kong is expecting it.
The moment a flash of white whips into his sight, he pulls the trigger. It catches Japan's side, knocking him first off-balance and then to the ground. His katana rolls from his grasp as his blood leaks through his clothing like the hot burning pain slowly creeping up his body. Gasping when the bullet finds an exit, Japan turns to get to his feet, only for a gun to be shoved in his face, and the wielder is none other than his own sibling. Japan has always been great at his reserved personality, but now even that well-worn façade is lost. He recoils away from the angry metal of the gun burning against his skin. His own flesh and blood only inches closer to him until the barrel is flush with his forehead. Unable to flee, ironically like the caged animal Hong Kong is, Japan is trapped. It is almost as if he can't try to escape it either. His whole being, soul and mind, is numb with the idea that his own brother is the perpetrator. He cringes at the memory of China, brutally slaughtered in his own home. Along with this snapshot came the crisp images of his friends. America. Germany. Italy. England. Greece. Turkey. His family. He can't just die here and leave them all behind. That's not something he wants to do.
So, in a desperate attempt to save his life, Japan tries to plead with the madman.
"Please…please don't do this." Japan stares into his eyes, seeking some shred of humanity.
He finds none.
Hong Kong manages another half smirk, his eyes darkening in the shadows.
He speaks his first words, "What's that word from your country?"
Japan doesn't know how to respond, but Hong Kong has already found is answer.
"Oh, that's right." His smirk widens, encompassing his face like a ugly plague insanity could be. But in that instant it is gone again, buried under the crushing weight of nothingness.
He speaks his final judgment, "Sayonara."
And pulls the trigger.
Japan's head snaps back, the bullet ripping through the delicate tissue of his brain. The brain stem severs, disconnecting him from the immense pain before he passes. It is brief and abrupt, only taking up a second or two of real time. Hong Kong watches in satisfaction as his eyes come to a close, shielding him from the signs of death playing in the orbs. One more down than he has hoped for, but he still had one more bullet awaiting deployment in the barrel. He could deliver one last cold judgment as long as he makes it count. In an act of self-pity, Hong Kong takes a blanket and throws it on Japan's body like he is trying to hide the crime he's already detached from.
Hong Kong was not the average madman. While he feels nothing in the midst of committing the crime, little flickers of various emotions would appear after all is said and done. It is as if his sanity is fighting a war, trying to win back his mind and provide him with reason, regret, pain, unhappiness, something. Yet he would not react. What exactly has to happen in order for the caged bird to be free?
Hong Kong preps for the disposal of his third and final victim. In the house of his dead brothers, he scrubs himself of the damning evidence. He removes his splattered clothes from his starving body and replaces it with some of China's old clothes. He watches himself as he pulls the oversized the shirt over his head, allowing it to swallow him up. His pale neck is exposed, the paper white skin stretching femininely down to his small set shoulders, hardly visible from the long sleeves his brother is too fond of. He remedies this by ripping each sleeve off at the seam, giving his hands accessibility to his gun. The sleeves would only hinder him and ruin his shoot.
Smart for a madman.
His eyes meet that of the boy staring at him in the reflection, dark eyes wide and pale flesh trembling. It is the image of his former self, a broken child handed to each person like a disease no one wished to have. It was the beginning of his end, the end of his sanity. Hong Kong reaches up and touches his cheek, vaguely fascinated when the boy reaches up to do the same. His skin is flawless, while the skin underneath Hong Kong's fingers are bruised and worn, suffering from his own brutality.
His other had reaches out to touch the mirror's surface, connecting each fingertip slowly with the boy that had been him. In the eyes of the child, he could see the desperation he had possessed, praying that someone would save him from his own growing nightmare. If someone had just cared a little, he would be free now. This fact angers Hong Kong. He would not be trapped in this endless cycle of his forsaken emotions coming and going on insanity's command. He would be happy.
The caged bird would be singing.
Hong Kong rips his hand away from the mirror, only for it to come back as a fist and shatter the mirror. The glass stabs him, causing him to hiss as the shards hit the counter and his sprained wrist damages further. That boy is gone as well, killed by the same person that delivered a bullet to both China and Japan. The new wounds sting almost like a reminder of the most horrendous crime he's ever committed. Maybe it is only the pain, but it evokes an emotion so foreign that for a brief moment, Hong Kong is taken aback. He has to touch his face again to confirm it is actually happening.
He is crying.
And little by little, the darkness in his heart begins to lift, exposing him and all his hideous glory.
He falls to the ground, tears pouring down hot on his skin like the blood pulsing from his hand. It hurt him so much. Not the cuts or bruises or sprains he did himself, but his heart aches, along with the idea of what he did. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't be.
Hong Kong gets up and wrenches the bathroom door open, running for Japan. He removes the blanket in haste, uncovering the audacity of his crime. There is not a doubt Japan is dead, for the moment his knees hit the floor, they are encompassed by all the blood that has drained from his body. Hong Kong shakes him twice, watching his head lull unnaturally in the state he'd put him in. He recoils, seeing the blood remaining on his fingers like an ugly paint that no matter how many times he rubbed, it would not come off. His tears of pain water his vision down to blurred objects of colors; the only thing seen perfectly is the contours of his brother's face, all holding the signs of death.
Still the bird could not accept it.
He sprints for China's room, only to find that he too is in a similar state. Neither one had survived.
The caged bird is now free, only to find it came at a price to unlock the cage.
Oh, that bird could sing so sorrowfully.
It is pitiful whimpers that turn into full out cries, resonating through the night. While the flowers of his brother's life wilt away, his life is just in bloom again, in the light, and no longer in the darkness.
Hong Kong returns to Japan's room, picking up his prized katana as if it is a sacred artifact. Removed from its sheath, its blade glistens in the moonlight, reflecting the tearful eyes of the wielder. What is that that thing they do in Japan? He wonders silently. What is the word?
Oh ya.
Seppuku. (A/N2)
The freed bird would never sing again.
(A/N): It's said when someone murders like this, it showcases just how brutal they want the victim to die.
(A/N2): It's suicide, usually in association with the honorable suicide of a Samurai. They actually carried around special blades for this purpose.
This was actually pretty long. Hope you liked it!
-Soul Spirit-
