[Fic] Diary Entries 4/?
Title: Diary Entries
Author/Artist: ~Luciole_Solange
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Francis, Arthur, slight Fruk
Rating: T
Warnings: ...none?
Summary: Francis couldn't speak about what had happened to him during his occupation in WWII, so he decided writing was the best alternative. Diary entry four, in which Francis clears a few things up and makes himself comfortable in his new home.
[chapter 1] [chapter 2] [chapter 3]
July 27nd, 1945
It had been almost a week since I left Arthur’s home.
Over that since I have written in this book. I have simply not had any time to myself, people constantly watching me and talking with me to my great chagrin.
Arthur read my journal; I just couldn’t stay there any longer. I had planned to go back to my home, or perhaps the brothel; but Angleterre wouldn’t hear of it and he put me here instead, admitting me to this hellhole against my will.
Apparently I am a danger to myself and others. I think I was officially admitted under the statement that I was “mentally incompetent to live without constant supervision and medical handling.”A doctor’s way of saying my family and friends do not want to be burdened with me anymore, I think. The only one who has even had the little time to bother trying to help me was Arthur, but after everything…
Well, I do remember that day rather well, though the edges around my memories still hazy; alcohol and time does to the mind. Angleterre had left to get us food at the nearby town because I refused to eat his cooking. I remember I didn’t want to be alone, the thought of it, with my only company my own thoughts terrifies me. I practically begged him to let me come with him and when I did not get my own way, well, I found his treasured stash of whisky hidden under the floorboards of the kitchen… happenstance really.
After forcing down that foul tasting liquid, I remember only feeling worse about everything. I lamented over Arthur leaving- truly I had convinced myself Arthur was never coming back and that idea to me was just unbearable. The thought of me being a problem to others made me want to throw myself off the roof, even though I knew nothing would happen besides breaking a few bones. I had even convinced myself of having made up my whole four years of occupation, that I wasn’t abused or harmed, that I was just being a- ‘big baby’ if I am making out the words correctly.
When Angleterre did return though, I found myself glaring at him and I must have stashed the journal under a shingle- which only makes me question how Arthur found it in the first place- one doesn’t just stumble upon a hidden book on a rooftop without looking. After that… I remember yelling and shouting- or was that Angleterre? It is mostly just a blur but whatever did happen, Arthur became much more distant. He asked me a few times to talk to him or to sit with him, but he didn’t press too hard when I rejected him. All I did the following few days was lay up in my bed and sleep- the hangover I had seemed to last forever, much longer than most of the ones I’ve had. It made my stomach sick and I knew it wasn’t just the alcohol anymore.
But then… then he found my journal.
And here I am.
My new prison is a simple room. The walls around me are white, as is the twin bed, the small- uncomfortable looking chair, and the desk under the window. For some reason, it unnervingly reminds me of place Ludwig and Gilbert kept me in. Even the tapping has started again; sometimes soft and slow and other times harsh, quick and clapping on the fake tile floor; and always echoing through my small room. I have come to associate my multitude doctors now; some men, some women- who come to my room under the guise of offering help.
Most of them seem friendly enough. Except for one of my regular doctors that I have come to know as the young woman with a quick, clacking step and curt speech -I usually never bother to remember my doctor’s names. Although… Well, Dr. Brun doesn’t try to put on that façade, she tells me everyday that I most likely will stay in this very room for the rest of her life and that I most likely will never be trusted on my own. I think she is a lot of big words and talk with not much to back her up- she cannot be over twenty-five… But even for her young age, I do appreciate her blunt honesty. She doesn’t try to make things seem any better and I’m grudgingly grateful for that. If the situation had been different I may have even confided in her as a close friend. Instead I find myself writing in this journal.
The rest of the team of nurses and doctors assigned to me seem to all blend together, just one big mass that says the same thing. Some are old, some are middle-aged, and are some young, like Dr. Brun, as the woman and even from there, more variation occur; short, tall, broad, slender- but no matter what doctor, what nurse; I refuse to meet their eyes or even look at them for too long. I do not want to come to know any of them.
They do try to talk to me- but I have only been abandoned on their front step, they are obligated to speak to me, paid to do it. They pretend to care about me and I am… I am somewhat grateful for company, however fake. I could almost compare them to actors, bluffing about feeling something they don’t, trying to incorporate me into their play. But- sometimes it is nice to act along with them, to be part of their act and just let myself get lost in their imaginary world; for a little while at least.
But then I glance to the window outside, and the real world that lies just beyond it, inviting me- and the final curtain falls.
It sits quietly in the middle of one wall to when there is no one else around to keep me company; when no one is there to ask me questions, or to try to force more medication on me. But, no matter how hard I pull, how many times I try- I cannot pry it open. The world outside eludes me but the small amount of light that it does allow to fill the room is just enough to pry into my eyes and wake me up in the morning no matter how much I wish to stay asleep. It’s as if the sun is mocking me, not allowing me to be ignorant of what lies just outside of my reach- making me painfully aware of just how trapped I am
One morning though, it wasn’t the sun that woke me up, but a small, quiet chirping sound, prompting me to take another look outside my window. Just beyond it, I could see a small birch tree, its blotchy brown and white branches scraping across my window, causing shadows to dance across my room as the wind blew passed- even though I never feel the fresh air against my face. A robin makes its nest just a short distance away among the leaves. It’s meshing its home together with small twigs, leaves and its own red plumage. I am content to simply watch, to gaze at what I have wanted for such a long time now. The small robin never looks to me- to busy with its own life- and for once, I am merely an observer for single, quiet moment.
And now I have to credit some AMAZING people that I would not be able to write with~ My dear twilightrose2 and Dustbunnythumper… Really, you guys are amazing and I don’t know what I would do without you! <3