Prologue

"Prussia!"

Germany banged loudly on the door to his brother's room, his glowering eyes fixed on the wood as if he could burn it down through sheer willpower. "Prussia," he bellowed again, "open the door!" There was a long silence. No one seemed to have heard him. Germany scowled. "Bruder, I saw you go in there! What the hell is going on? Prussia, I swear to god—"

"Go away, West."

The voice on the other side of the door sounded hoarse, strained, pale. Germany paused. "Prussia, are you sick?" He demanded. No one answered him. "Prussia, you've been acting weird all week! What on earth is going on?"

"Nothing. Go away, West, I'm fine."

Why didn't Germany feel convinced? Something seemed so…off. He lifted his hand to beat at the door again, but he hesitated. He slowly let his hand drop. "…Fine, whatever, handle it yourself then," he replied warily. He turned and left. "It's none of my business anyway…"

…

Prussia stood on the top step, staring down at the cold empty room. His face was dirty, and his clothes were torn and muddy, and his eyes were dull, and his legs were trembling uncontrollably. He stumbled down, his leaden feet dragging across the creaking wood as if they weren't even his.

…maybe they weren't his. Ja, that must be it. They weren't his. Everything felt too numb to be his. His own body wasn't his. His legs and arms and the trickle of blood running down his face…

…blood? He paused for a moment, letting his hand reach up and brush his fingertips against the cut across his head. Wincing, he jerked his hand back. Blood was smeared across his fingers. Weird. How had that gotten there?

Shutting his eyes, he slumped sideways onto his nearby bed, his head thudding against the wall. He felt something soft land on his head. There was a chirp near his ear, but he swatted at it. "Get off," he muttered. "Not awesome Gilbird…I don't want to talk…"

Gilbird pecked at his hand, fluttering around his head wildly. Prussia just ignored him. He forced his eyes open.

A beat-up leather book was lying near his foot. He stared coldly at it for a moment. He bent over and scooped it up, letting it fall open in his hands. He could see his own handwriting scrawled across the pages as he slowly flipped through. There was one word that kept glaring out, as if burned into his mind.

…Hungary…

He felt his throat tighten. He was about to shut it when he was suddenly at a blank page. He paused for a moment. Grabbing a pen off the floor, he slowly started writing.

Dear Diary,

Today was so aweso…

He stared down at the words, trying to think of what to write after that. He scribbled them out, watching as the ink soaked through the page. He tried again.

Dear Diary,

I was so awe…

Another pause. He scratched the words out again, tearing through the paper. He stared down at the lines on the paper, which seemed to blur together, the ink dripping down the page like blood. He started writing again, slowly.

Today I…did something…stupid…

…

Hello everyone! Sorry this is a short chapter! I mean, it's only the prologue, but still, short is short. Don't worry, they'll get better.

I'm not a hundred percent sure if I'll even continue with this, so, um, comment if you like it I guess. Or even if you don't, critiques would be appreciated. Just as long as they're actually critiques. Thanks~!