De-Anoning just in time for Halloween
This is the first in MANY fics that I'm going to de-anon from the Hetalia kink_meme. Figured I should do this one first since it fits in with the Halloween spirit.
Title: Serial Killer Serial Victim
Genre: Horror
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England, America, Japan, Italy, Canada, historical people
Rating: PG13-R for gore and dark themes
Warnings: Gore
Summary: A Nation is the sum of all their parts, all their citizens. And not all citizens are kind. Nations and their serial killers. Originally for the kink_meme, now edited and polished a little.
~
Everyone forgets one important fact about Nations.
A Nation is a Nation, and with that comes all the dark gritty shades that comes with being one. While each Nation has a unique personality and can act human, they are not quite human. And none of them can ever be considered good people. Never, not in a million years.
None of the Nations will be good people, due to one simple fact: they are made up of more than borders drawn on a map and structured governments. Their people, their citizens, create a Nation. A citizen is simultaneously a Nation's creator and child. By breathing life into their Nation, a citizen influences their country and is part of the Nation. Laws and history may be inscribed on a Nation's bones, but it is the people that are a Nation's lifeblood.
And not all citizens are kind.
A Nation knows everything about their citizens. They are almost omnipresent when it comes to things that deal with themselves, even if they don't necessarily pay attention to everything at once. Their citizens fascinate the Nations, some more than others. Objects of fascination include bosses and other political leaders. Military commanders. Movie stars. Civil Rights activists. Rebels.
Serial killers.
England was the one who started the Nations' odd love affair with serial killers in modern times. His dear Jack is arguably the most famous of all time, as well as being the most mysterious. They say that no one knows who Jack the Ripper really was.
Such a blatant, blatant lie.
England was there when aristocratic hands, surgeon's hands, cut through delicate female flesh to reach at innards, hot and steaming. England remembers the taste of fried human kidneys and the feel of intestines curling in his palms as he wrapped them around banisters like Christmas wreathes. They were beautiful and warm, the way ordinary decorations were not. He aided dear Jack...no he was Jack.
And at the same time he was also the poor girl laying on the floor, choking on air, trying to live. England remembers the feel of her (his) insides being plucked out, and watching his (her) blood spill out onto the streets against their will. He was killer and victim, because both were English citizens, both were his and him all at once.
So twisted, so cruel.
England knows his dear Jack's real name. He dare not say it because he might summon the ghost to his side. England isn't sure if he would welcome dear twisted Jack...or run away screaming that the devil was there.
England and America seem to breed the most amount of serial killers, or at least known ones. None of the others say it to their faces, but the world knows that America picked up the habit from England the same way he picked up language, culture, and that terrible taste in food. And in that same old pattern that they had fallen into oh so long ago, America always speaks to England first with tears in his eyes and “murder” on his lips.
When America arrives at England's door, his hands bloodstained and his mouth twisted into that mad, mad smile, England always feels his heart stop.
It was like looking at a mirror.
So the elder lets the other in, and listens to the stories. America smiled serenely, the expression more frightening than any he had ever worn, as he recounted how Edward Gein (or was it him, America?) cut open women and hung them up like slaughtered deer. Yet, in an instant, the calmness drained from his face and he cried wildly for the women (or was it him, America?) disemboweled and turned into trophies. Then, America leaned in close, his lips brushing against the elder's ear, tear-stained lashes fluttering against cheeks, as he whispered sweetly about the great skill it took to turn human skin into lampshades and masks.
It wasn't uncommon for one Nation or another to arrive at a meeting, their fronts stained red, an odd dark smile on their lips, and their eyes cloudy with tears. A Nation is a killer and victim all at once, seeing both sides of the equation. Ah yes, serial killers are a dark fascination.
Japan knows quite a bit about fascination. Did Japan not have otaku? Japan and many of his people have rooms where movies were scattered about the floor and stacked up against the walls, memorabilia hanging from the ceiling and displayed on shelves. But one of those rooms in particular is one that Japan will never forget, for it always stirs something in his heart, horror and sadness, but sometimes, something else, another emotion, blooms like a blood red rose. In that lonely cluttered room, the one closest and farthest away from his heart, Japan sat invisibly, shoulder to shoulder, with a lonely troubled man. The man, Tsutomu Miyazaki, wrung his deformed hands and together, he and the Nation watched films of flowers being carved out of flesh and blood, their heart desiring, no needing, to perform the task themselves. Japan remembers the letters, remembers composing them with cut outs from newspapers and a vicious smile on his lips. He remembers receiving them with horror twisting in his gut.
“Erika. Cold. Cough. Throat. Rest. Death.”
Did Japan not have the Otaku Murderer?
During World War II, Italy once came to Germany muttering insanely about how prison was on his right hand, asylum to his left. Recognizing that mad gleam in the Italian's eyes, Germany allowed Italy the day off. It was the only time during the war that Germany felt frightened of his ally. Rather than taking the day off, Italy hovered protectively over one particular soldier during drill practice as the boy's mother, a Leonarda Cianciulli, hacked up her neighbors and boiled the fat down to use in cakes and soap. To this day, Cianciulli's pot is still on display at the capital, and Italy still remembers that gift of the sweetest, sugary cake and the softest, creamy soap.
Even quiet Canada is not immune to the darkness of his citizens. He comes to a meeting smelling of barnyards and red copper. The way he giggles and cries as he tells his brother about Robert Pickton feeding people to pigs and then pigs to people, forcibly reminds the others that once upon a time Canada was a shock trooper, the bogeyman, of the Great War. The northern Nation drags gory hands through wavy blond locks and asks why everyone is looking at him. It's strange for the others to notice him, and now that they do, Canada is a little frightened, like a child. And as he sits there at the table, tears and blood, killer and victim, all intermingling, the others remember that Canada is not quiet nor gentle nor kind.
Nations are not good people. Never, not in a million years.
Notes:
Jack the Ripper: Operated in 1888 in Whitechapel, a poor district in London, England. He is considered the first modern serial killer. (The very first was in China.) He was never caught, and they still have no idea who he was. However, due to the nature of his crimes, it has been deduced that he was probably a nobleman with medical knowledge. Jack the Ripper was able to remove not only the intestines of his victims, but also the kidneys (which he claimed to have fried and eaten) indicating a knowledge of the human body since the kidneys are tricky to get to.
Edward Gein: Operated in 1950s in Plainfield, Wisconsin, the United States of America. Gein is not technically a serial killer, since he only is accused of killing 2 people (you need to kill at least 3 to be considered a serial killer) but he was the inspiration for several fictional serial killers, such as Norman Bates from Psycho. He was a grave robber, and made several trophies out of human remains, such as the mentioned lampshades and masks. After he was placed in a mental institution, the staff commented on his good behavior and serene attitude.
Tsutomu Miyazaki: Operated from 1988-1989 in Saitama Prefecture, Japan. He was nicknamed the Otaku Murderer. He was a film fan, almost fanatical to the point of obsession, and when they searched his home it was overflowing with tapes. Supposedly, he was inspired by the Japanese slasher film Flowers of Flesh and Blood of the Guinea Pig series. (BTW, that film was so graphic and realistic, the American actor, Charlie Sheen, thought that it was a real snuff film.) The quoted line in the story is from a postcard he sent to one of his victim's family. His crimes shocked the Saitama Prefecture especially because he targeted children (Saitama was well known for the lack of crimes against children).
Leonarda Cianciulli: Operated from 1939-1940 in Correggio, Italy. A very superstitious woman, she believed that when her son was sent to war that she had to make human sacrifices to keep him safe. She killed 3 of her neighbors because of this. To get rid of the bodies, she boiled them down for fat that she used in making cakes and soap which she then distributed among her friends and family. A fortune teller once told her that “prison was in (her) right hand, an insane asylum in the left.”
Robert Pickton: Operated from 1999-2002 in British Columbia, Canada. He worked as a pig farmer, and reportedly fed some of the remains of his victims to his animals. Of all the mentioned serial killers here, he is the only one still alive.
Title: Serial Killer Serial Victim
Genre: Horror
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England, America, Japan, Italy, Canada, historical people
Rating: PG13-R for gore and dark themes
Warnings: Gore
Summary: A Nation is the sum of all their parts, all their citizens. And not all citizens are kind. Nations and their serial killers. Originally for the kink_meme, now edited and polished a little.
~
Everyone forgets one important fact about Nations.
A Nation is a Nation, and with that comes all the dark gritty shades that comes with being one. While each Nation has a unique personality and can act human, they are not quite human. And none of them can ever be considered good people. Never, not in a million years.
None of the Nations will be good people, due to one simple fact: they are made up of more than borders drawn on a map and structured governments. Their people, their citizens, create a Nation. A citizen is simultaneously a Nation's creator and child. By breathing life into their Nation, a citizen influences their country and is part of the Nation. Laws and history may be inscribed on a Nation's bones, but it is the people that are a Nation's lifeblood.
And not all citizens are kind.
A Nation knows everything about their citizens. They are almost omnipresent when it comes to things that deal with themselves, even if they don't necessarily pay attention to everything at once. Their citizens fascinate the Nations, some more than others. Objects of fascination include bosses and other political leaders. Military commanders. Movie stars. Civil Rights activists. Rebels.
Serial killers.
England was the one who started the Nations' odd love affair with serial killers in modern times. His dear Jack is arguably the most famous of all time, as well as being the most mysterious. They say that no one knows who Jack the Ripper really was.
Such a blatant, blatant lie.
England was there when aristocratic hands, surgeon's hands, cut through delicate female flesh to reach at innards, hot and steaming. England remembers the taste of fried human kidneys and the feel of intestines curling in his palms as he wrapped them around banisters like Christmas wreathes. They were beautiful and warm, the way ordinary decorations were not. He aided dear Jack...no he was Jack.
And at the same time he was also the poor girl laying on the floor, choking on air, trying to live. England remembers the feel of her (his) insides being plucked out, and watching his (her) blood spill out onto the streets against their will. He was killer and victim, because both were English citizens, both were his and him all at once.
So twisted, so cruel.
England knows his dear Jack's real name. He dare not say it because he might summon the ghost to his side. England isn't sure if he would welcome dear twisted Jack...or run away screaming that the devil was there.
England and America seem to breed the most amount of serial killers, or at least known ones. None of the others say it to their faces, but the world knows that America picked up the habit from England the same way he picked up language, culture, and that terrible taste in food. And in that same old pattern that they had fallen into oh so long ago, America always speaks to England first with tears in his eyes and “murder” on his lips.
When America arrives at England's door, his hands bloodstained and his mouth twisted into that mad, mad smile, England always feels his heart stop.
It was like looking at a mirror.
So the elder lets the other in, and listens to the stories. America smiled serenely, the expression more frightening than any he had ever worn, as he recounted how Edward Gein (or was it him, America?) cut open women and hung them up like slaughtered deer. Yet, in an instant, the calmness drained from his face and he cried wildly for the women (or was it him, America?) disemboweled and turned into trophies. Then, America leaned in close, his lips brushing against the elder's ear, tear-stained lashes fluttering against cheeks, as he whispered sweetly about the great skill it took to turn human skin into lampshades and masks.
It wasn't uncommon for one Nation or another to arrive at a meeting, their fronts stained red, an odd dark smile on their lips, and their eyes cloudy with tears. A Nation is a killer and victim all at once, seeing both sides of the equation. Ah yes, serial killers are a dark fascination.
Japan knows quite a bit about fascination. Did Japan not have otaku? Japan and many of his people have rooms where movies were scattered about the floor and stacked up against the walls, memorabilia hanging from the ceiling and displayed on shelves. But one of those rooms in particular is one that Japan will never forget, for it always stirs something in his heart, horror and sadness, but sometimes, something else, another emotion, blooms like a blood red rose. In that lonely cluttered room, the one closest and farthest away from his heart, Japan sat invisibly, shoulder to shoulder, with a lonely troubled man. The man, Tsutomu Miyazaki, wrung his deformed hands and together, he and the Nation watched films of flowers being carved out of flesh and blood, their heart desiring, no needing, to perform the task themselves. Japan remembers the letters, remembers composing them with cut outs from newspapers and a vicious smile on his lips. He remembers receiving them with horror twisting in his gut.
“Erika. Cold. Cough. Throat. Rest. Death.”
Did Japan not have the Otaku Murderer?
During World War II, Italy once came to Germany muttering insanely about how prison was on his right hand, asylum to his left. Recognizing that mad gleam in the Italian's eyes, Germany allowed Italy the day off. It was the only time during the war that Germany felt frightened of his ally. Rather than taking the day off, Italy hovered protectively over one particular soldier during drill practice as the boy's mother, a Leonarda Cianciulli, hacked up her neighbors and boiled the fat down to use in cakes and soap. To this day, Cianciulli's pot is still on display at the capital, and Italy still remembers that gift of the sweetest, sugary cake and the softest, creamy soap.
Even quiet Canada is not immune to the darkness of his citizens. He comes to a meeting smelling of barnyards and red copper. The way he giggles and cries as he tells his brother about Robert Pickton feeding people to pigs and then pigs to people, forcibly reminds the others that once upon a time Canada was a shock trooper, the bogeyman, of the Great War. The northern Nation drags gory hands through wavy blond locks and asks why everyone is looking at him. It's strange for the others to notice him, and now that they do, Canada is a little frightened, like a child. And as he sits there at the table, tears and blood, killer and victim, all intermingling, the others remember that Canada is not quiet nor gentle nor kind.
Nations are not good people. Never, not in a million years.
Notes:
Jack the Ripper: Operated in 1888 in Whitechapel, a poor district in London, England. He is considered the first modern serial killer. (The very first was in China.) He was never caught, and they still have no idea who he was. However, due to the nature of his crimes, it has been deduced that he was probably a nobleman with medical knowledge. Jack the Ripper was able to remove not only the intestines of his victims, but also the kidneys (which he claimed to have fried and eaten) indicating a knowledge of the human body since the kidneys are tricky to get to.
Edward Gein: Operated in 1950s in Plainfield, Wisconsin, the United States of America. Gein is not technically a serial killer, since he only is accused of killing 2 people (you need to kill at least 3 to be considered a serial killer) but he was the inspiration for several fictional serial killers, such as Norman Bates from Psycho. He was a grave robber, and made several trophies out of human remains, such as the mentioned lampshades and masks. After he was placed in a mental institution, the staff commented on his good behavior and serene attitude.
Tsutomu Miyazaki: Operated from 1988-1989 in Saitama Prefecture, Japan. He was nicknamed the Otaku Murderer. He was a film fan, almost fanatical to the point of obsession, and when they searched his home it was overflowing with tapes. Supposedly, he was inspired by the Japanese slasher film Flowers of Flesh and Blood of the Guinea Pig series. (BTW, that film was so graphic and realistic, the American actor, Charlie Sheen, thought that it was a real snuff film.) The quoted line in the story is from a postcard he sent to one of his victim's family. His crimes shocked the Saitama Prefecture especially because he targeted children (Saitama was well known for the lack of crimes against children).
Leonarda Cianciulli: Operated from 1939-1940 in Correggio, Italy. A very superstitious woman, she believed that when her son was sent to war that she had to make human sacrifices to keep him safe. She killed 3 of her neighbors because of this. To get rid of the bodies, she boiled them down for fat that she used in making cakes and soap which she then distributed among her friends and family. A fortune teller once told her that “prison was in (her) right hand, an insane asylum in the left.”
Robert Pickton: Operated from 1999-2002 in British Columbia, Canada. He worked as a pig farmer, and reportedly fed some of the remains of his victims to his animals. Of all the mentioned serial killers here, he is the only one still alive.