Close Every Door [1/6]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 18:25:51 UTC
... This is the hardest thing I've had to write ever, because of the utter lack of love and fluff. ;A;
~
'Close every door to me, hide all the world from me, bar all the windows and shut out the light.'
The room is old but dustless, the normally cluttered area straightened out and tidied. The different knick-knacks and souvenirs of the past, both painfully and lovingly acquired, are arranged in neat rows and stacks on the sides of the badly stripped walls. A single naked bulb hangs by a thin wire, flickering and casting eerie shadows against the objects in the room. The air is stale and quiet.
The rattle of chains breaks the silence, and the sole occupant of the room shifts uneasily on the thin mattress- no bed frame or headboard- that he has been provided with. Green eyes open slowly, confused and disoriented. England can't really remember what happened the night before- it was a blur of sharp smells and alcohol and hazy silhouettes. His head throbs and his throat burns with dryness, but he struggles to sit up. He slowly begins to recognise where he is, and he reaches out to touch a box beside his mattress. His eyes widen in confusion and panic as he notices a shackle on his wrist, and a chain on that connecting to the wall.
The sounds of boots approaching from the other side of the door are magnified by the migraine, and England gazes anxiously at the wooden separator, half-hoping that it was all just a big mistake, a joke, a misunderstanding.
The doorknob turns with a squeak, and England holds his breath.
He enters fluidly but not silently, and every clink of metal and groan of old leather against old leather rings in England's head.
"Good morning, England."
The tone is light and cheerful, deceptively innocent. England looks defiantly at his captor, or as defiantly as he could with the chains and the throbbing headache.
"I see you've been drinking again." He makes a disappointed noise, reaching out a hand to stroke through ash blond hair. England tries to pull away, but the fingers in his hair tighten like a vise, and he has to hold back a whimper of pain. "When will you ever learn?"
His head is wrenched backwards, and England gasps out, "I wasn't drinking. I know I wasn't."
"Oh, poor England, so confused. Don't worry, I'll take care of you."
"Like hell you will," England spits out. "Let me go!"
He is thrown against the mattress, body pinned down by a solid weight. "First lesson, darling- obedience." The whisper is delighted, depraved, and England shudders and closes his eyes, but not before catching a glint of steel swooping down toward him.
The pain isn't entirely unexpected, but England fights not to scream anyway, as the knife is forced deeper into his shoulder. The metal scrapes against bone, and tears start forming in his eyes, but he won't let them fall. Not for this.
"Come on, England. Scream for me."
He shakes his head violently, cursing as the knife is twisted back and forth. He's in agony, he can't think, he can't think- but he can't scream; he won't give the satisfaction. The knife is twisted with more force- with a sickening crack and a blinding pain he feels the bones in his shoulder break, and a cry escapes his lips.
"That's it, England, let go," are the cooed words of encouragement. He draws the knife in and out, slowly at first, making England think he had given up, but then forcing it back in over and over, increasing the speed and power with every thrust. "Scream for help, for mercy. You're always so uptight. Scream my name so everyone knows who you belong to."
England cannot stop the cries and yelps anymore, and the tears flow freely from his eyes as he fights back pitifully. The knife, slick with blood, slips and rips his flesh, from the shoulder down his ribs, and this time he opens his mouth and screams.
Re: Close Every Door [1b/6]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 18:27:17 UTC
France hummed a little tune as he unlocked England's door, an old English folk song that he couldn't quite recall the title of. He grinned to himself as he thought about the trick he would play on his favourite rival today- hopefully he would be surprised to death.
Closing the door behind him, he looked around in confusion. The house was oddly silent- usually England would be blaring out some sort of punk rock cacophony from his stereo as he read Shakespeare.
But the rocking chair by the window was empty. France goes to check the kitchen- God help him if he would find England there- when he noticed something out of place. The bookshelf labeled 'S' was in disarray. Granted, there was only one extra book that was lying on top of the others, but France knew England was meticulous, borderline obsessive, about the order of his books. Everything was alphabetised, everything had a place, and most importantly, everything fit.
Curious, he picked up the book that was lying horizontally and checked the title. Titus Andronicus. He checked the titles of the others and tried to place the stray book in the correct position, but it wouldn't fit. Even more intrigued, he looked through the shelf- there was the culprit. The dog-eared, almost ruined book of Sonnets that England never kept with the others, but on the rocking chair for easy access. With a sigh, France lifted it to make space for the tragedy, but a piece of paper fell slightly from between its pages and fluttered to the floor.
How very strange. Replacing Titus Andronicus, he flipped the Sonnets open to where the paper was sticking out. The page of Sonnet CXVI was completely ruined, stains that looked suspiciously like dried tea covering it. The loose paper was in Arthur's handwriting. It looked as if he had been trying to write down the sonnet to replace the ruined page. Francis scanned the paper, laughing a little at his rival's obsessiveness.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remov-
There was a diagonal slash of ink across the paper, violently made, as if the pen had been released in a rush. Francis' eyes narrowed. What was England playing at?
He dropped the book onto the rocking chair where it belonged, and made his way further into the house. There was no England in the kitchen, no England in the bedroom, no England in the bathroom. He pressed his ear against the locked door leading to the basement, but he couldn't hear maniacal laughter or eerie chanting. It was as if England had simply vanished.
He checked the time, and furrowed his brows in confusion. It was tea time. England wouldn't miss it for the world.
Picking up his mobile, he dialled a familiar number.
Re: Close Every Door [1c/6]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 18:28:38 UTC
"Hello Prussia," France said, trying to keep the confusion out of his voice.
There was a fumbling on the other end of the line. "Aw, shit, it's you- look, dude, we're best buds and all, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't always ask for phone sex in the afternoon, because that's just wei-"
"No, no, no. Have you seen England around lately? He appears to be missing."
Prussia gave a small 'hmm'. "Nope. Fuck if I know where he is. He didn't turn up for our drinking contest last night, and he was talking about it for weeks!"
"He keeps to his schedules all the time, doesn't he?" France was beginning to grow a little suspicious. "I'm in his house right now and he-"
"Dude, that's fucking scary. You broke into his house when he wasn't there? Good God, man, what are you, Pedo Bear? Didn't you used to take care of him or something?"
France ignored the teasing that sounded all too sincere. "Perhaps I'm just overreacting. Perhaps he just went to the store." But the refrigerator had been fully stocked, and England wasn't the type to just go out to buy needlessly.
"I think you are. Maybe your head's finally messed up your other head." Prussia let out a loud guffaw. "Get it?"
"Oh, shush, that's vulgar. Nevermind, perhaps I am not thinking clearly."
Prussia sighed. "Still, it wouldn't hurt to ask around more, if you're worried. Personally I think he just pulled the stick out of his ass and got a life. Get back to me when you find him- I want that drinking contest sometime next week."
France hung up, thinking to himself. It was possible that England had gotten into another of his rebellious moods and just left for a few days, or, more likely, taken out his old punk clothes and roamed the back streets to drown himself in memories. It was nothing to worry about.
France turned and left the house, leaving his suspicions behind him.
~
Just as a note- the quote is from Close Every Door, from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. And forgive me for my spacing error in the previous post! XD
This OP is really happy when you filled! There's nothing that can describe this OP's happiness when she read this. The spacing is not a problem, but it's still a good thing. She can't even think coherently to make a good comment for Author!non. She hopes that you will update as fast as you can~ =D
Re: Close Every Door [1c/6]
anonymous
May 23 2010, 02:51:58 UTC
I really like the way Francis notices something is off with England's house, this way it's obvious those two has known each other to certain degree for a loooong time. And even with that Francis manages to talk his mind out of it, old rivalry is strange huh?
Re: Close Every Door [1c/6]
anonymous
May 25 2010, 01:59:43 UTC
God damn you, getting showtunes stuck in my head. *but I know the answers lie faaar from this wooooooorld...*
Erm, right.
That's some effective violence, there. There was a sexual edge, yes? Creepy. It worked out very well. I know we're in for more darkness, but France's too-personal insights were interesting and amusing and completely fitting, and Prussia's dialogue made me snort.
~
'Close every door to me, hide all the world from me, bar all the windows and shut out the light.'
The room is old but dustless, the normally cluttered area straightened out and tidied. The different knick-knacks and souvenirs of the past, both painfully and lovingly acquired, are arranged in neat rows and stacks on the sides of the badly stripped walls. A single naked bulb hangs by a thin wire, flickering and casting eerie shadows against the objects in the room. The air is stale and quiet.
The rattle of chains breaks the silence, and the sole occupant of the room
shifts uneasily on the thin mattress- no bed frame or headboard- that he has been provided with. Green eyes open slowly, confused and disoriented. England can't really remember what happened the night before- it was a blur of sharp smells and alcohol and hazy silhouettes. His head throbs and his throat burns with dryness, but he struggles to sit up. He slowly begins to recognise where he is, and he reaches out to touch a box beside his mattress. His eyes widen in confusion and panic as he notices a shackle on his wrist, and a chain on that connecting to the wall.
The sounds of boots approaching from the other side of the door are magnified by the migraine, and England gazes anxiously at the wooden separator, half-hoping that it was all just a big mistake, a joke, a misunderstanding.
The doorknob turns with a squeak, and England holds his breath.
He enters fluidly but not silently, and every clink of metal and groan of old leather against old leather rings in England's head.
"Good morning, England."
The tone is light and cheerful, deceptively innocent. England looks defiantly at his captor, or as defiantly as he could with the chains and the throbbing headache.
"I see you've been drinking again." He makes a disappointed noise, reaching out a hand to stroke through ash blond hair. England tries to pull away, but the fingers in his hair tighten like a vise, and he has to hold back a whimper of pain. "When will you ever learn?"
His head is wrenched backwards, and England gasps out, "I wasn't drinking. I know I wasn't."
"Oh, poor England, so confused. Don't worry, I'll take care of you."
"Like hell you will," England spits out. "Let me go!"
He is thrown against the mattress, body pinned down by a solid weight. "First lesson, darling- obedience." The whisper is delighted, depraved, and England shudders and closes his eyes, but not before catching a glint of steel swooping down toward him.
The pain isn't entirely unexpected, but England fights not to scream anyway, as the knife is forced deeper into his shoulder. The metal scrapes against bone, and tears start forming in his eyes, but he won't let them fall. Not for this.
"Come on, England. Scream for me."
He shakes his head violently, cursing as the knife is twisted back and forth. He's in agony, he can't think, he can't think- but he can't scream; he won't give the satisfaction. The knife is twisted with more force- with a sickening crack and a blinding pain he feels the bones in his shoulder break, and a cry escapes his lips.
"That's it, England, let go," are the cooed words of encouragement. He draws the knife in and out, slowly at first, making England think he had given up, but then forcing it back in over and over, increasing the speed and power with every thrust. "Scream for help, for mercy. You're always so uptight. Scream my name so everyone knows who you belong to."
England cannot stop the cries and yelps anymore, and the tears flow freely from his eyes as he fights back pitifully. The knife, slick with blood, slips and rips his flesh, from the shoulder down his ribs, and this time he opens his mouth and screams.
"America!"
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Closing the door behind him, he looked around in confusion. The house was oddly silent- usually England would be blaring out some sort of punk rock cacophony from his stereo as he read Shakespeare.
But the rocking chair by the window was empty. France goes to check the kitchen- God help him if he would find England there- when he noticed something out of place. The bookshelf labeled 'S' was in disarray. Granted, there was only one extra book that was lying on top of the others, but France knew England was meticulous, borderline obsessive, about the order of his books. Everything was alphabetised, everything had a place, and most importantly, everything fit.
Curious, he picked up the book that was lying horizontally and checked the
title. Titus Andronicus. He checked the titles of the others and tried to place the stray book in the correct position, but it wouldn't fit. Even more intrigued, he looked through the shelf- there was the culprit. The dog-eared, almost ruined book of Sonnets that England never kept with the others, but on the rocking chair for easy access. With a sigh, France lifted it to make space for the tragedy, but a piece of paper fell slightly from between its pages and fluttered to the floor.
How very strange. Replacing Titus Andronicus, he flipped the
Sonnets open to where the paper was sticking out. The page of Sonnet CXVI was completely ruined, stains that looked suspiciously like dried tea covering it. The loose paper was in Arthur's handwriting. It looked as if he had been trying to write down the sonnet to replace the ruined page. Francis scanned the paper, laughing a little at his rival's obsessiveness.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remov-
There was a diagonal slash of ink across the paper, violently made, as if the pen had been released in a rush. Francis' eyes narrowed. What was England playing at?
He dropped the book onto the rocking chair where it belonged, and made his way further into the house. There was no England in the kitchen, no England in the bedroom, no England in the bathroom. He pressed his ear against the locked door leading to the basement, but he couldn't hear maniacal laughter or eerie chanting. It was as if England had simply vanished.
He checked the time, and furrowed his brows in confusion. It was tea time.
England wouldn't miss it for the world.
Picking up his mobile, he dialled a familiar number.
"Yo. Supreme king of awesomeness here."
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There was a fumbling on the other end of the line. "Aw, shit, it's you- look, dude, we're best buds and all, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't always ask for phone sex in the afternoon, because that's just wei-"
"No, no, no. Have you seen England around lately? He appears to be missing."
Prussia gave a small 'hmm'. "Nope. Fuck if I know where he is. He didn't turn up for our drinking contest last night, and he was talking about it for weeks!"
"He keeps to his schedules all the time, doesn't he?" France was beginning to grow a little suspicious. "I'm in his house right now and he-"
"Dude, that's fucking scary. You broke into his house when he wasn't there? Good God, man, what are you, Pedo Bear? Didn't you used to take care of him or something?"
France ignored the teasing that sounded all too sincere. "Perhaps I'm just overreacting. Perhaps he just went to the store." But the refrigerator had been fully stocked, and England wasn't the type to just go out to buy needlessly.
"I think you are. Maybe your head's finally messed up your other head." Prussia let out a loud guffaw. "Get it?"
"Oh, shush, that's vulgar. Nevermind, perhaps I am not thinking clearly."
Prussia sighed. "Still, it wouldn't hurt to ask around more, if you're worried. Personally I think he just pulled the stick out of his ass and got a life. Get back to me when you find him- I want that drinking contest sometime next week."
France hung up, thinking to himself. It was possible that England had gotten into another of his rebellious moods and just left for a few days, or, more likely, taken out his old punk clothes and roamed the back streets to drown himself in memories. It was nothing to worry about.
France turned and left the house, leaving his suspicions behind him.
~
Just as a note- the quote is from Close Every Door, from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. And forgive me for my spacing error in the previous post! XD
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I do know it is natural, but still....
More, anon..
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Anyway, this anon is looking for more<3 :D
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Anyways, I am loving the start of this story! But poor Arthur! ;_; Omgosh is Alfred a sadist or what!? o_o
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Only England could do this. Yeah, only him...
Anyway, moar Anon!!
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Erm, right.
That's some effective violence, there. There was a sexual edge, yes? Creepy. It worked out very well.
I know we're in for more darkness, but France's too-personal insights were interesting and amusing and completely fitting, and Prussia's dialogue made me snort.
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