HETALIA BELONGS TO HIDEKAZ HIMARUYA
Italy—Il Ammuntadori [The Addis Ababa Massacre, 1937]
Veneziano had reasons to sleep well at night. Money is a problem—it has almost always been—, but when one's got many friends, lives in a pretty and comfortable house, is healthy and chicks from all around the world melt with your accent as you whisper sweet nothings into their ear, there is nothing that can keep you up all night.
Except...the Ammuntadori.
It won't come tonight, he said to himself. All of the windows and doors are properly closed, and I never get into bed without saying my prayers. Veglia su di me, Padre amato, mentre mi consegno fiducioso al sonno, come un bambino che dorme felice tra le tue braccia. Nel tuo Nome, Signore, riposerò tranquillo. Amen.
But it always comes. It always finds a crack to slip into the bedroom.
He's dreaming of chubby cherubs playing the harp and then he starts smelling it. He didn't know one can smell in their dreams—perhaps it is only him. A bad stench, which made his face of awe wrinkle. Only those who know what a burning human body smells like knows how unpleasant it is.
The cherubs are still playing, still happy, like the hedor doesn't reach their button-like noses. They keep playing their harps—what notes are they playing? It sounds like children wailing. Sharp, long, penetrating. And they sound louder and louder, and Veneziano must press his hands on his ears. Stop, stop!, he pleades, but the little angels take it as an invitation to approach and play in his ears.
Veneziano tries to run. Have you ever tried to escape in a dream? You run your fastest, but barely move an inch. And whatever you are running from keeps approaching.
He looks at the cherubs, and the cherubs look back at him. Their lips open once again, to giggle one last time before their jaws drop, down, down, down, their eyes sink into empty sockets, their generous curves consume before his eyes and become charred sticks.
They grab him. Scratch him with their tiny, sharp nails. He screams, tries to get them off him, all uselessly, for they are many and he is one.
And he raises his head and sees it. Black as the night, except for that sharp, shining grin.
Veneziano prays. Signore Giesù, proteggimi...Santa Madre di Dio...Though it never works, he must know why. Remember, nothing happens without God's permission.
Its face...he has already seen it. The face he looked at while he burnt his village and everyone living in it.
And he wakes up. Now it is him who screams.
He will scream another day. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but the Ammuntadori will come back.
It always comes to haunt his dreams.