Black or White
England was dawdling through the ICU ward, only a few doors down from his brother's door as he slowly headed back to his room. He purposely moved at a snail's rate, hoping to take until morning to get back to his room.
However it was only 3:30 so it was going to be a very, very, very slow walk; if it could be counted as a walk at all.
He had stopped to stare at a painting.
There were quite a few paintings dotted around the hospital to make it a more cheerful and beautiful place. In Arthur's opinion, they were not successful. True - it added small areas of brief prettiness and a chance to be distracted by bright colours. But it did not change the overall atmosphere of the hospital.
To many, it was still a scary, sterilised building with a vague cloud of sickness and death hanging over it.
The painting he was looking at was still beautiful though. It was a scene of a garden. In the background, trees lined the grass and the sky was a perfect blue, cloudless.
It was the foreground that England preferred though. Lining the bottom and sides of the oil painting that gave a glimpse into the picturist garden were intertwining roses. Many of the roses were red but white and yellow roses broke up the monotony. England smiled at the flowers, feeling drawn to them. He thought they were beautifully painted but nothing could compare to the real flower.
England glanced at a different flower that had twisted its way into the foreground.
It spiky leaks and purple head named it as a Scottish thistle. The thistle and the rose shared a similar curse, he thought. Both were very beautiful; both were impossible to touch without pain.
The one difference was that the thistle was a counted as a weed.
It was a strange thought and the blonde was not sure where it had come from.
Arthur felt himself smile suddenly, as the painting and thought brought an image to the front of his mind. A young, peppy blonde with an American accent appeared, buzzing about some sort of challenge. America, or at least that is what he thought the strange man was called, retold about how he had to pick one of each British national flower with his bare hands. A daffodil, a shamrock, a thistle and finally a rose.
The man collected the shamrock and daffodil with great ease.
However America had spent 10 minutes trying to remove a rose without piercing his hands on those deadly thorns. He bragged to England about it afterwards, despite having seven small nicks on his hands, saying that he had got the hardest one and now he only had the Scottish flower to retrieve.
Arthur laughed loudly when he remembered America's face at seeing the spiky plant for the first time and realising that the rose's thorns paled in comparison to the deadly spikes that covered almost every square inch of the flower. But America managed to get the flower after almost an hour, his hands bleeding badly by the end.
England smiled kindly at the memory of him having to bandage the idiot's hands while America beamed proudly.
The blonde's eyes widened suddenly.
A memory.
He had remembered something!
Before he could decide if this was a good or a bad thing, a crash came from down the hall. England turned to see half a dozen nurses rush into a patient's room. The blonde gasped as he recognised it as the red head's room.
He ran back hurriedly to the room, moving two nurses a little more roughly than necessary, and forced himself through the door again. He felt faint as his gaze fell upon the scene.
The oxygen tank was loose from it's holder, the metal cylinder still rolling around from being knocked about, and the mask that was attached to it was tossed aside, the plastic being cracked now.
The clear IV bag was burst from the tubing being pulled too hard and ripping a hole in the plastic. The salty solution was splashed all over the floor. The bag that had contained the nauseating food substances was also on the floor along with its holder, slightly torn judging by the thin trail of the yellow gunk. The tube was still leaking some of the food.
The crash had obviously come from the bed. The large heavy metal bar bed frame had been knocked over; the rails on the edge of the bed bent downwards as if down by some great force or pressure. The bed covers were ripped back from the bed messily and thrown to the side. Amongst the scrunched up sheets were small drops of red; assumedly little bits of blood from the IV being removed badly.
And there, lying beside the bed was...
No one.
The red haired man was gone.
Scotland had gone missing.
(A/N - Wow. Who saw Scotland's disappearance coming? Be honest! I bet that surprised you.
I decided to post this story today because... IT'S MY (and France's) BIRTHDAY! Taadaa~ I am finally 18 and legally allowed to drink whisky in pubs now.
When I was younger and much more gullible, I visited Paris, France about several times on my birthdays. Since the 14th of July is an important date in France as it's the anniversary of the beginning of the Republic of France, they have huge fireworks there each year. My parents had convinced me for the longest amount of time that the fireworks were for me. I used to feel so happy that Paris celebrated my birthday like that. Then I found out about the storming of Bastille and the actually reason for the festivities.
Anyway - I didn't go to France this year. I am in Elie in Fife (somewhere in Scotland) which also has a fair on my birthday. I didn't go very far for my 18th birthday since I went to Amsterdam last week with my friends.
There were a couple of good theories but nothing outstandingly new or unique compared to past chapters. The most interesting one was about Maeve trying to get into England's pants.
Give me some new theories since I thought this chapter should stir up some cool thoughts! THEORIES PLEASE!
REVIEW PLEASE!)