hetalia_kink | Hetalia Kink meme part 15

You don’t like him. He knows you don’t like him. Mother knows you don’t like him. She comes to you at night clutching her sleeping gown to her chest and begs you to understand.

He’s changed, she says, pleading with you, pretty green eyes heartbreakingly sad. He’s been sober for years, dear. Can’t you please—

He beat you, you would deadpan, staring blandly at the ceiling. There’s a sick taste in your mouth. You had new bruises almost every day.

Pretty green eyes widen. Her bottom lip trembles. She whispers, I didn’t think you’d remember. I thought you’d forgotten. You were so small…

You laugh, bitter and sardonic. You came up with the lamest excuses too. I never believed you when you said you fell.

Her eyes close, her little face pained. You startle when her hands, so small, so delicate, clutch yours. I believe him. He’s your father, why can’t you believe in him too?

You’re up in a flash, eyes blazing, and you don’t remember what you did to make her cry so hard—the memory is hazy, all fog and no sunshine—but the next thing you know she’s shoved up against the wall, your hands on each side of her frail skull. You’re shouting cruel, vicious things—malicious things, hurtful, spiteful things—at her face, and her shoulders shake with her sobs.

She cries harder when you bring up the past, digging up old, dusty memories of past abuse, of broken noses and split lips. Your remember the other things, the torn blouses and limps in the mornings and the muffled screams at night; and feel even more sick when she only defends him.

You don’t like to make girls cry because he would always make mother cry. You swore not to be like him. You swore to be the exact opposite of him, a perfect, decent man, a man who would make mother happy and never make her shed any tears.

He prefers blue eyes; you prefer green. He doesn’t love mother; you love mother more than anyone.

If only she could see that.

Deep inside, the monster begins to hate her a little; but it loves her too. You love her too.

And you’ve always been selfish, always terribly spoilt, little-boy-in-the-sandbox-who-doesn’t-like-to-share-his-toys.

Father doesn’t deserve her.

Her eyes are puffy and red when she leaves your room to go back to him.

The monster in your chest, scaly and horrible and mean, does not like to make her cry any more than you. You do agree, though, that her pretty green eyes look even prettier when they’re full of tears. The monster and you don’t agree on a lot of things, but at least you can agree on that.

Soon, you begin to come home as late as possible. You don’t want to see his face any more than you have to. The sight of mother and him together is enough to make you retch. You’ve always had a quick temper when pushed, but you’re easy going and laid back for most of the time. Your friends ask questions when your temper becomes as capricious as the weather. You snap at them more often. You’re more violent during practice. Your grades don’t slip but your fists often do.

You no longer care so much about making girls cry.

The year comes and goes again; and this time, you’ve broken up with twice the amount of girls than you did the past two years. Your friends say you have a fondness for blond, green-eyed girls.

You just like green eyes is all. You’re fond of brown but prefer green. You dislike blue. It’s the color of his eyes.

You hate father. You wishes he would dissappear again and never come back this time. Father makes you see red; father makes you angry, so angry sometimes that you break things without meaning to; father makes your head hurt so much it feels like its splitting in two. Father makes you wish…makes you wish…

At night, when you’re the only one awake, you think about hurting him. The way he hurt mother before he left, the way he hurt mother because he left. The way he hurt you by hurting mother. You squeeze your eyes shut to try to run away from the memories.

It’s useless; the memories are right there, laughing at you, taunting you. You’d been useless, too weak to do anything. Too weak to protect mother from the man she loved—still loves—more than you.

You remember how happy you’d been when he finally left. You remember how much mother cried. You curl your mouth in disgust.

It’s not fair. You were the one who took care of her, who made her smile, who was there whenever she needed support—so why does she still love that man more than she loves you? He was the one hurt her, who left her pretty face blue and purple whenever he drank too much. All you ever did was be perfect. For her. To make her happy.

It’s always been about her. No one else has ever mattered.

It’s no fair.

And it’s enough to make you want to hurt her, too.

It’s enough to make you want to hurt them both.

And really, why not?

--

The sight of her face makes you so, so angry. The sight of her face makes you do crazy things. The sight of her face makes you so angry you do crazy things, things that make no sense, all fog and no sunshine.

The sight of her face—gentle green eyes, cupid bow lips, button-like nose and all—makes you see red; makes your head feel like its splitting in two and it’s just easier to let the monster—scaly and horrible and mean—croon evil things in your ear and persuade you to do something about it.

So it’s understandable that her face is the first part to go.

Gentle green eyes, cupid bow lips, button-like nose and all.

It peels off like the skin of an apple.

You leave her eyes alone for now. You’ve always loved green eyes best after all. You don’t spare father’s. Father is the first to go; you’ve always hated him. You tell him so before he chokes on the tourniquet, body convulsing and eyes rolling on the back of his head. The sight of him disgusts you. You hate blue eyes. You hate the color of his hair, his skin, the way he smiles.

Unlike father, mother is beautiful. The red looks so nice against her milky pale skin, her pink fingernails scratching desperately at the floor until they break. She yanks at the rope on her wrists until the skin turns red, and the handkerchief stuffed in her mouth quickly turns the same color too. The red mixes with the salty water on her face.

Gentle green eyes, milky white skin, bubbly short hair the color of sunflowers bathed in honey—

When you kiss her, she tastes like copper.

She smells like sugar and freshly planted roses. You wish you could take her scent and seal it away in a bottle forever. Keep it with you forever. Love it forever.

You settle for keeping her eyes in a jar.

---

Orz. Orz. So obviously never written serial-killer fics before. Next part will have Arthur in it, promise! /lame author-anon is lame ~~to identify myself from the two lovely other author-anons, I shall call myself lame-author-anon from now on~~

;A; lame-author-anon can't do math so early in the morning apparently fffff

Ho--ly shit. Pardon my language but dude how Alfred is thinking is SCARY a-a-nnd CREEPY.

Don't call yourself lame author anon! Because you're not! D':

Letting readers become Alfred is very effective, I may say. Because sometimes its hard to figure and/or barely imagine what goes on inside a killer's head! Please do continue, this really woken me up from my nap! XD

This is wonderful! Well. ^^; Not wonderful that Alfred is a serial killer but so wonderfully written and insightful. Who knows what goes on inside a serial killer's mind? You're done so well to make it believable, and I feel sorry for him if anything else...

If you can make people feel sorry for evfen a serial killer you're doing really well in your writing.

T-t-t-terrifying!! You built this up so *well*! So ... Believable it is downright *creepy*! O_O

The sympathy for arthur already is SKY HIGH. Oh *arthur* look who your going to fall for!!!

Now I wish that Arthur would NEVER meet this guy

You did an amazing job in showing Alfred's slow descent into madness. That last line truly freaked me out O___O

Please update soon not-lame-anon!! This is amazing!

Lame author non is not lame.

This has me quite literally on the edge of my seat, anon. While reading, I can practically hear a soft, childlike narrative growing into a mad, raging shout. The characterization of Mother and Father and all the pretty girls with green eyes and blond hair...Alfred's gradual descent to the breaking point...

It's beautiful.

-needs to update my own ffff-

Excellent transition and becoming of a serial killer monster. I got shudders, anon. Really good. I'm afraid for Arthur, though, this obviously doens't bode well for him

A question, are you going to have him genderbent? Just asking because Afred has only dated girls so far...

my god /stalks this

Al's so creepy...

holy. crap. I cannot wait to see how this will go. That was really, really good. o_o
and anon, you are NOT lame!! D

Hetalia Kink meme part 15

KakuRenBo [Prologue part VI]

KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]

Second to last part should be part IV /fails

OP

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Re: KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]

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