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this one needs a bit of explanation. n w n ;
I was working on my capture the flag story when an End-Of-The-World story caught my eye, and I read it, and... Wow. ( read it: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5251546/1/Log_of_the_End_of_the_World ) So I just started this, and... Whatever. It's from Yasu's point of view, set somewhere in the future, and it's totally unedited and unfinished. I suppose if anybody likes it enough to comment, orz ;, i'll finish and polish it up. ~
I don't know what day it is anymore. I don't think I can be bothered to remember the season, the time, the month... It's all a blur of surviving and digging and burying, running away and trying not to remember, finding things, but mostly losing them. I can't tell who I am anymore.
I am Kyushu; my name was Yasu, once. Peace, calm, level. I try to live up to it, but now it's just so hard. Peace is holding someone you love under a threadbare blanket; I have long lost him. Calm could be walking to school with a big lunch in your bag and a full day ahead of you; school now, is a distant memory. It feels like a joke. Calm is life. I need not go any further.
But names now, feel so human. And I don't think that I am up to that description, any more. Mama tells me to use my name, that it is one of the few things we have left. He still makes sure I am fed first, that my hair is cut evenly and that my wounds are dressed far before he thinks the same of himself; he is still Kiku. He still makes me smile, despite the fact that millions of his -our- people have emigrated elsewhere, that those who are left are starving and war-torn and dead in all but one sense of the word.
We still fight on, because what is there left to do?
I'm not sure about Haru-nii anymore. We last saw each other a month- a year? a day?- ago, and he... He wasn't my brother. He was a man, if that, who squatted in the middle of rubble and made corpses of looters and troublemakers, who punched Mama in the face when he awoke from sleeping so fitfully I wondered if it was unintentional at all.
I think that's what broke him. Mama was never angry, simply bandaged himself and moved on, stirred the pot of soup and made sure that Papa was resting his hip- Thessaloniki, bombed to ashes by the Turks, and he hadn't walked until a month after. But Haru-nii, his eyes blanked, and I wonder if he can still see through the guilt that masks them.
I pray to the Gods that don't exist, that he's okay. The Cretans, I know, have never been ones to surrender, no matter how terrible their circumstances. Even if the island was bombed by the Turks, citizens massacred by solders storming in by foot, I don't think they'll give up just yet.
Empty as they were, Haru-nii's eyes were kindling for a great fire. I hope he's giving Turkey hell, Papa alongside him. I wouldn't expect anything less.
Turkey- amid famines and outbreaks of disease and war in other countries- has become a twisted sort of empire again. His forces invaded all of the former Ottoman regions, and most were simply to weak to fight back. Some, like Papa, Hungary, Serbia, Croatia, fought back. Serbia and Croatia were crushed- we buried them along with their most valiant warriors. I prayed, even then, and it was the most whole I felt in a while. Papa and Hungary and Haru-nii are still fighting. Those who are not are dead or are staying out of the way; Turkey is an almost unstoppable machine now, and probably wouldn't think twice about slicing their faces open.
I almost long for the days in which he'd traipse up to our house and Mama would feed him and he'd pinch my cheek and whine in Turkish, and Papa and Haru-nii would fume and stay out of his way. But that's all over. So are the days of HarutoSatuYasu, one entity and one heart, three kids pushed together by war and kindness and birth and circumstance. I know Satu's still alive and kicking- she sent a letter with Denmark and Norway when they went to explore Central Asia and to see if anyone was still alive- Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and Kazakhstan were all they could find and it's just as well- and I've memorized it, by now.
I’m still extreme, she wrote, but it's getting harder for me to breathe nowadays, what with flooding and Swedish soldiers enforcing their new laws with a fist and a loaded gun, but compared to Aiti's state and Russia's, i'm happy. I'm alive and I can laugh and so help me God if you don't get this, for whatever reason, there will be Hell to pay. I love you, I love you. Sleep tight.
I saw no tears, though I know by now that she, Finland, Denmark, Astrid, Norway, Iceland and Estonia, are suffering under Sweden's hand- her own father. The man who taught her to walk. I cannot imagine... I feel like I should hope that Sweden's new reign collapses and perhaps a new Nation might be born of it, but under his rule survivors are recovered and people are given rations, so at least their dead are respected and their stomachs are entertained. Ojisan was always one for fairness.
Finland, though, I hurt for. He had to face Russia again, a housecat against a bear; like so many years ago he was outmatched in nearly every field... And like so many years ago, he won. Satu told me of the days she and he spent crouched in the snow, clinging to their guns for the lives they had left, and when Russia fell once and for all. They couldn't bury him, it was so cold.
She told me they had cake to celebrate; the first sweet thing that she'd tasted in months, and that she'd cried all night afterwards. It was so sweet, Yasu. We used to make them when we were little, and we burned out fingers and mouths eating them. Remember? We were little once. We cried because our mouths hurt, not because... You know, Yasu. I love you. I'm sorry.
Satu. Mama used to scold us for cursing, I took ballet, Haru-nii painted, and you skied for fun. We were all kids once.
I'm going to cry. But I can't cry, even though it feels like there's cotton balls filling my mouth and my throat is closed and my head hurts and something is screaming at me to just let it out, you ********, before you destroy yourself from the inside out and you'll never pick up the pieces. But if I start crying I’ll never stop, until I run out of water or sadness and my eyes won't be able to close and I’ll think of Papa and Haru-nii and Finland and Hungary and Canada and Alba and Nico and I’ll never ever ever stop and I can’t handle that.
Nico…. He’s long dead. Barcelona, burned and bombed and completely destroyed, caught in the crossfire of the war churning between Italy and Spain and who knows who else. It changes every day, those hypocrites.
… They weren’t sitting with him when the first bomb fell. They didn’t hear him scream when the fires started burning. They weren’t the ones who held his head in their lap and stroked his face as his life stained his threadbare shirt red, they weren’t the ones who were too selfish to call one of his siblings or parents or whoever so he could die with them, too. They weren’t the ones who only got to say ‘I love you’ once. They weren’t the ones to share their first kiss with a dying boy.
There is no beauty left in the world.
Those who appreciated it are gone or can’t; Poland, found in a mass grave with his rebels, who fought desperately against Germany, determined not to get dragged into the war that Germany himself was dragged into by Italy and Switzerland. France, who focuses too much on reaching Canada to care anymore. Taiwan, swallowed up in the vacuum that became the Russo-Chinese empire, beaten bloody for her defiance. Even myself, but my eye for it died along with Nico. I don’t know if I’ll ever see it again.
 men getting pregnant · Mon Oct 12, 2009 @ 10:09pm · 1 Comments |
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