12. Of Waste and Despair
Date Written: February 1, 2019
Date Posted: June 1, 2019
Characters: Veneziano, Germany
Summary: Hidden in a crate of decayed produce, Italy ruminates on life.
Notes: Just my own little spin on that first short that kickstarted the series.
The crate reeked of rotting produce.
Normally, Italy would have gagged at the stench and after a good few seconds of taking in the ghastly aroma, he would have a stern talking to the transporter in charge of such poor quality vegetables… He would have been furious—such a waste of beautiful produce! He would have felt righteous fury in place of his farmers, for the crops that were lovingly and tenderly brought to life under their watchful eyes. He would have taken one whiff—nay! One look at the sad little crate and he would have stomped away from whence he came.
Yet, this was not one normal day.
Normal days would have been brimming with bright sun. Normal days would have people milling about with smiles on their faces and songs bursting from their lips. Normal days had him wandering from town to town, cantina to cantina in search for wonderful wine and gorgeous women.
Normal days were happy.
This.
This was not a normal day.
This was not a happy day.
Italy was not acting normally.
Inside that wretched, rotting hellhole that once housed his prized tomatoes, Italy sat.
He didn't sing, he didn't talk. His youthful features had hardened into a calm only the toughest of men and the most corrupt of politicians could ever hope to make. He was curled onto himself, hoping that perhaps he could return to the state of a small child.
Inside that filthy, decaying excuse for box of produce, Italy tried to sleep.
Perhaps, if he tried hard enough, prayed hard enough, the rotting odor would subside. Maybe, if he squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, the fumes would go away and all that would be left would the be the distantly humorous memory of anger and sadness at such a spectacle.
Inside that box, Italy wept.
He wept for the loss of such wonderful produce, of the hard work that was wasted on ungrateful people. It was stupid, he thought. It was not stupid, he seethed. Back and forth, his mind tried to reconcile himself with the reality that the smell that he was currently gagging on, he was immersed in it and he had done nothing, was doing nothing and—
Outside that dank, dark crate, Italy heard a sound.
Rhythmic, smooth. Yet—Italy canted his head to the side, his ears and other senses ready for other sources of simulation. The sounds… Closer. Urgent. Like...oh, like mosso to presto with precise 4/4 timing.
Closer still, the sound became progressively louder (a crescendo to forte).
Closer still, he could hear muffled swears.
Closer, ever so closer still, the odor grew even more imaginable.
And that's when Italy realized.
Perhaps it wasn't the crate that reeked of the godawful stench. The stench, the rotting… could it be? Could all of this senseless destruction be attributed to one factor? This unforgivable, nasty rotting all in one person?
Italy felt angry, scared, and—
The crate's lid jostled; the stench had increased hundredfold and Italy mistakenly gagged out loud.
"What?"
At that moment, Italy acted—whether it would result in betterment for himself and the poor produce that deserved better, he knew not. He simply opened his mouth to retort, to retaliate, to say—
"Hello to you! I am the box of tomatoes fairy!"
He was angry, but he would bide his time.