Survivor
Offline.
Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on Feb 19, 2013 18:49:58 GMT -6
The sentiments where expected from being trapped between walls. Everywhere was dark. Gruesome and ghastly souls that screamed all over the hallways. She could hear the voices, becoming more and more prominent with each step she took. This were the last drops of the battle that is never won. Where freedom took its last bow. It was a ideal that now only existed in books. Something washed away with the tears and helpless hopes of a better tomorrow. This last battle had drained each and every single one of her reserves of energy. She had spent so much time in battle that she felt exhausted. It didn't feel like something won, but rather the remains of a war that lasted as long as common sense and dignity did.
Was it still a war if you could never win? It certainly was. But then it is not called war, it is called victory. Victory to the opponent. And now, all that remains is to lick the wounds and hide the scars. Had she lost her mind then? Had she finally given up on the remote possibility of walking out of this glass and feel the air of the reality that existed only outside? No. Her fault? Certainly not. She had not given up, because if she had she would've dropped her weapon and desperately beg for Death.
She wished she could talk to Death. She could only do that when she was back home, and only once a year. Only on November 1st and 2nd did she have a conversation worth remembering. When her people gathered around to cherish those whose lives did no longer belong in the world of the living. Only then, when her people united as one to praise Death, could she do the same. She missed her, La Catrina. She wished she could ask the skeleton with the dress, the one she was dressed as, for some advice. She wanted to know where she was taking the other nations, that saying if she could and not leave them trapped here. Would she accept a request to trade one life for the other? Would it be disrespect?
They were so many questions that Ana María wished she didn't have to ask. They are two types of questions in this world. The ones we wished to know the answer to, and the ones we're afraid we already know the answer to.
But these couldn't be what it all gathered up to. That battle couldn't be the last. Because if it was the last then what was next? Just endless wander in eternity, until their own bodies gave up from exhaustion. But if this was not the end, then there was something greater and meaner coming next. Something that she feared she might not survive. It was frustrating, that thought alone. To think that she had come this far simply to lose before the end. It would anger her.
Mexico walked into the infirmary, wondering how her legs were moving. All she wanted was to lay on a bed and sleep. Sleep until it was over so that when she woke up again everything would be better. She wouldn't have to worry so much and she would no longer be surviving. But no. She had to take care of the wounds that were hurting. There was a cut on her left palm that she had intentionally made. Not because she wanted to hurt herself but rather because the adrenaline had washed over her and it seemed like the right thing to do. It even sounded crazy in her mind, that she would inflict pain on herself to achieve something. But that was what it was, and now it was beginning to sting. Her blade was tainted with blood, her own blood, but she couldn't come to clean it. For the first time in her life blood was making her cringe. It was making her sick.
Ana María walked over to where the alcohol and bandages were. She placed the needed utensils over a small table. As she inspected the palm of her hand she could deduce that the cut was deeper than expected. Simply washing it would not suffice, and she couldn't take the risk of having it infected. That was the last thing she needed. It would be such a pathetic way to fall. And she would never be able to forgive herself.
She traced the edges of the cut with the tips of her right fingers. That hurt. It was worrisome. Ana María sighed as she looked around for something she knew she would need. She had assisted many soldiers in battle to know how to be resourceful with limited supplies, but this was essential. She needed to sew the wound. Use a needle and some string and dig into her skin to attach it back together. Ana María knew how much that would hurt, especially because she couldn't find any sort of anesthesia in this place. She was almost reluctant to do it. What was the worst that could happen if she didn't? Oh don't be silly, girl. It needed to be done.
Ana María took the bottle of alcohol and stared at it. To use it or not was her major debate. She finally agreed by opening and without thinking took a sip of it. Any hope of getting sufficiently drunk discarded when she spit it out. Ana María could stand hard liquor and it took a while before she was really drunk, but the taste of pure alcohol burned her insides and she couldn't made herself swallow it. So instead, she poured some over a small ball of cotton and gently pressed it against her wound. The amount of pain that rushed over her body was indescribable. Every inch, every corner of her body was aching. It was a inner scream for her to make it stop. Just stop. Take it out. It hurts so much.
But Ana María kept pressing, she had to kill all the germs. When she finished, she used another cotton ball to clean and the needle, and placed the string over the small hole at the top. This was the part that she couldn't think about. This was the part that would really hurt. It was the moment when people would go asking "why me?". Why me and not some other unfortunate soul? Why should I die while others get to live? It wasn't a fair question to ask or answer, but it was what it was. As nations, they were made the become stronger physically and mentally, to endure more pain than humans could ever imagine. But this place made every wound, every ounce of blood hurt more than expected. Hurt in the deepest parts of the being. Hurt in the soul.
Ana María took the needle with her fingers and took a deep breath. She had to see the tiny object pierce into her skin, go through it, and as it did, the girl let out a piercing cry. A cry that was soft and at the same time shattered mirrors. A cry not a scream. A scream would be too much, too real. She couldn't let herself to understand what she was doing because it would it hurt more than it would. So she just dig into it and let it come out of her skin. The string was now between the edges of the cut. And so the repeat the process. Just let one tear fall.
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Vasile Ionescu
Survivor
Played by Roma.
Offline.
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players"
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Post by Romania on Aug 27, 2013 1:25:44 GMT -6
Vasile had no idea why he was headed for the manor’s infamous infirmary that night. He didn’t know what he hoped to accomplish or find there, nor could he ever recall having made the conscious decision to go there. His legs were just moving on their own, his steps shaky and so fast he almost tumbled over his own feet on multiple occasions, yet he could do nothing to slow down his march. He was rushing down the empty, silent corridors, his hand scraping across the torn wallpaper on the walls as he sought support for his walk. He didn’t want to fall flat on his face – he feared he’d never get up. He had to move. Even if his destination made no sense whatsoever, he had to advance towards it. He did rest, but it was more him allowing his steps to slow down for a few seconds before he took in a shaky breath and pushed himself on the move again, his trembling feet determined to get him to the place where the sick and weary were treated – or used to be treated, anyhow.
Treated… Yes, Vasile felt like that was the main reason he was heading there. He wanted treatment. Healing. Curing. He knew that and yet, what was there to be treated? There wasn’t a single cut or bruise tainting his skin anywhere in sight. He hadn’t caught a cold or lost blood, or, unlike the last time he visited the infirmity, he hadn’t hurt himself due to his clumsiness. He wasn’t bleeding, and he wasn’t feeling ill, either. He was, for all intents and purposes, “healthy” and “fine”. Any doctor taking a look at his outward appearance would have told him as much in the matter of minutes and sent him home to rest.
Yet no amount of rest would ever soothe his mind or treat his wounds. Vasile knew, because he had tried that. Sleep was usually the universal cure for anything, along with water – but not this time. No, all it had done this time was give him false hope by making him believe that what he’d done before dozing off had also been but a dream. But then he’d woken, and he had remembered it was not. He hadn’t known why, as there was no physical evidence of it, yet he had known. He had felt it. Sleep had made it worse; it had cleared his head enough for him to be able to think straight again and better recall what had happened. It had brought the memories back more vivid. But, worse of all, it had made him instinctively try and rationalize his actions to himself, to explain why he’d done it and why it had not been such a crime. It had, when you got down to it, made him try and explain murder.
And it had worked.
Every time he thought back to the desperate situation they were cast in and tried to find another way out, he drew blank. If given the chance… would he not repeat the mistake of taking someone’s life again? Would he not order his wolf to kill again? No… could he really even call it a mistake, if part of him did not regret it – if part of him knew it was a necessary evil to do in order for him to continue existing? He didn’t know. His mind wasn’t quite that clear yet, and he hoped it wouldn’t be anytime soon. Painful as the mass of thought and emotions whirling inside his mind was, he feared cold hard logic to be worse. But that was neither here nor now. Right now all he’d need to focus on was walking forward and never stopping. That alone could keep him in momentary peace, give him a temporary sense of purpose, or urgency that made him forget everything else.
Because despite what any doctor’d say, he really, really wasn’t okay. He was in pain – in such indescribable pain that he couldn’t even see where he was going at times. He was hurting, but he could not put the feeling in words and he had nothing to prove it with. It wasn’t pain from his body, it was pain from his heart. It was panic. Perhaps that’s why his legs wanted to take him to the infirmary, of all places. He knew that it was a place of curing, and so he subconsciously came there just for that. He had nowhere else to go. He wasn’t religious enough to have any place stepping into the chapel, and the roof – which he had used to clear his head some days earlier, was out of the question. He couldn’t go there. Not when that was the place he had met… met his brother in.
An image of Feliciano, smiling as he offered to find his hat for him suddenly sprung to mind, and Vasile’s heart wrenched. If the bubbly Italian only knew what he’d done, he wouldn’t be able to smile anymore, would he? Of course he wouldn’t. Who could, in front of their brother’s murderer? He could not allow himself to see the brunette ever again. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he did. He was scared. Not of Feliciano, but of himself. What if he were to kill the Italian too, just to escape the guilt the boy’s gaze no doubt brought? He had killed a nation once, there was nothing stopping him from doing it again. Surely, it could not hurt him any more than his first victim had. After all, the excuses kept building up even now. “Why should you feel so bad? You’ve killed before.” And he had. But not a fellow nation. Not, very possibly, an entire nation of people. He had killed individuals in wars, of course. He had watched Vlad the Impaler and not raised his hand to stop him. He had watched people being thrown onto spears as sacrifices for a god. His history was filled with darker things like that. And yet…
He shook his head. He didn’t know what to think. Should he be guilty? Or should he not? No, no, just questioning something like that was… just wrong. His face drew into a scowl and his fangs flashed as they bared from underneath pale lips. He’d have to walk faster.
And he did, finally reaching the infirmary after mere minutes. But what he found there was not the salvation he was looking for but a girl, stitching herself, clearly in pain. A lump jumped up Vasile’s throat so fast he almost fell backwards from the sheer force of it. It was as if he had walked straight into a metal wall. He had not even considered the possibility of there being another nation here. Foolish in hindsight, sure, but he hadn’t been in a condition to think that far. He still wasn’t. He couldn’t process this. What was he to do? What if she wanted to talk? What if she knew Romano? Who was she? He couldn’t recall right away. It was only after he forced himself to walk a few steps further that his mind dug up a name for the girl, and he instinctively mumbled it out to the world, surprised by his own voice. It was colder than he remembered.
“Ana… María..?”
It wasn’t a question any more than it was a statement. It was just a name he felt he needed to utter to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Oh, how he wished he had been. She probably didn’t hear him, because his words were silent and drowned out by her pained cries as she ran a needle into her skin over and over again. She was mending herself, it seemed. She was doing something he could not; fixing what had been broken. Ugh, his head… This was not the time to be poetic. Should he leave? He wanted to, yes, but the sight of the needle piercing her skin and the blood slowly trickling down her hand had him stay in an almost hypnotizing way. He wasn’t a vampire and blood held no special meaning to him in particular – except today. Today, it was a symbol of his guilt and the mere sight of it prevented him from looking away.
Yes, blood… There had been so much of it when he’d left the room they’d been trapped in and yet, not a drip of it was his own. Blood had stained the floor, the fur of his companion and the walls, yet it had not stained him. He was clean. He, who had spilled all the blood had avoided being tainted by it. How utterly ironic, how unfair that was. He almost wished it hadn’t been so. Wished he’d been soaked in it instead, wished he’d be dripping red with every step he took, because that would remind him and everyone around him of what he’d done. That would keep up the guilt he was slowly starting to let go of. It would keep the memory of murder alive so he could not forget and move on as if it was nothing. Was that why serial killers took possessions of their victims? Perhaps it wasn’t to relive the moment out of pleasure or a need for dominance? Perhaps a part of them didn’t want to forget, because deep down they knew they had done wrong?
Was he being ridiculous now? Trying to emphasize with serial killers? He probably was, and it drew a dry laugh from his throat, probably loud enough to alert the Mexican. It certainly was loud enough to pull Vasile himself back to the real world and away from all the thoughts of blood circling through his mind – at least for now. He shook his head slowly, not sure what to do now. He was probably spotted. He’d need to open his mouth. But what would he say? He was calming down, and the guilt was fading. He didn’t like it. He wanted it back. This was not right.
“Hey there~” He chirped before he realized it. He couldn’t really feel his mouth move, and the words that came out sounded distant to him, as if they came from behind a veil, as if they were uttered by someone else. What was he doing? He was smiling, wasn’t he; he could feel it on his face. It was a twisted, desperate mockery of a smile, but it was one nonetheless. It stayed on his face as if from reflex, his lips moving as practiced words spew out without his will. Words he often uttered when he met someone, words that were empty now. Words that tried to make him appear his old, upbeat self – and scarily enough, they were working. “You seem to be bleeding...” he commented, without knowing why. He’d adapted his usual role by now. He was just an actor again, uttering words from a script that had burned into his mind long ago. There was no guilt nor thoughts in his head. Just words and a grin he couldn’t remember forming. He hated it. “Would you like me to lick your hand clean?”
That's right, scare her. Make her leave, so you can be alone. Play around. Pretend.
It'll be alright.
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Survivor
Offline.
Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on Sept 4, 2013 15:36:50 GMT -6
Mexico's hands were shaking. Small tears of pain were falling down her eyes. Her vision was somewhat blurry and after multiple attempts to get the needle through her skin it seemed to be useless. Was it because of the pain that there was no way of controlling her movements? She just wanted to get this over with. She just wanted to stitch it up all nicely and be done with it. Oh why did she ever cut her hand in the first place? It had been a stupid move on her part, because of course she had no way of fixing it. Mexico knew that even with the stitches this was gonna leave a mark. A scar that would always be there. The girl hated scars, because they were always there to nag at her with constant reminders.
Emotional scars, in which she was positive she was covered all over, were even worse. She had one right across her face, where her makeup had once stood. Whenever she would look in the mirror, it would be there to greet her. It would smile in a perverse and cruel way, and every night it would whisper sweetly sleep tight. We try to think that everything we do, and the repercussions that it brings us, can fade away with tim. We think we can forget. But we never forget, we live with it. We live in the memory of who we were. But if Mexico was given a choice, she would trade all those emotional scars for the one right there on her hand. Because at least that one would only hurt right then and there. Or so she hoped.
Her hands finally fell way beyond her control and the needle which held the brown piece of string fell into the metal tray in front of her. Groaning, she tried to retrieve it, but her movements were clumsy and all she managed was to bump the tray into the ground. Small drops of alcohol fell to the floor, mixed with ounces of her own blood. She was quick to gather all the materials and put them back on the table. By then she was getting dizzy. Whether it was for exhaustion, blood loss, or the intense and aggravating pain she wasn't sure, but any minute now her heart would fall from her body and run around the room looking for an exit. Her mind would shut down and her body will succumb to absolutely numbness. And then? What would she do then? She wasn't sure.
"Ana… María..?"
Mexico was surprised to hear the sound of her name, or at least she thought she had heard the sound of her name. It was so soft, so inaudible that she might as well have imagined it. But regardless, it seemed that ages had passed since anyone had used it. It was vacant and empty, like something she had lost long before she had ever found herself here. She stood very still for a moment, but surprisingly was not scared. Maybe after everything she had had to do, and everything she had been through, maybe the ability to feel fear was gone. Maybe now she couldn't really feel anything with the same intensity as before. When she had experienced such sentiments so profoundly and deeply, did everything else count as such? What was fear when she had felt terrified? What was madness when she had felt true and pure anger? Perhaps that was her problem, she felt too much.
Ana María turned, even when her common sense told her not to. She had expected to draw blood and point her weapon towards the monster that no doubt was breathing through her silhouette. But to her surprise all that stood before her was no more than another nation. She then realized that she had been grasping the handle of her machete and that sickened her. She should've left it on that room, along with the bodies of the nations she slaughtered. She should've buried it six feet below the ground so that she could never again hear the accusatory sounds that called her a murderer. She wanted to get rid of it, and yet she couldn't. Because, murderer or not, that was the only reason why she was still alive and that had to count for something.
"Hey there~"
Mexico took a step forward into the light. Her vision was still blurry but at least under such clandestine spectrum of white could she recognize him. Romania. "You seem to be bleeding..." He continued. Yes, bleeding. Oh how a poetic term. She wondered if he could see it. That the wound on the palm of her hand was nothing compared to the rags and bruises and bite marks that were scattered all across her body. The ones no one can see, and consequently the ones that hurt the most. Ana María wasn't sure how to respond to him. It seemed forever since she had used her voice and if her luck was intact she probably already lost it. So she just nodded.
He grinned. "Would you like me to lick your hand clean?"
Ana María looked at Romania for a moment, unsure if she had heard him correctly. Why would he want to lick something that was contaminated? Something that wasn't pure or nice or even remotely good. She raised her hand. The few stitches that she had managed to do were slowly coming lose. It was a half done job. The remained string just hung there without purpose, already stained red. Given Romania's reputation, Mexico couldn't see why not. Perhaps if she allowed him to he could drain all the blood from her body and nothing would remain. No blood to soak her shirt. No blood to soak her guilt. She walked up to him, he hand raised and with a very coarse voice she said, "Go ahead."
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Vasile Ionescu
Survivor
Played by Roma.
Offline.
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players"
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Post by Romania on Nov 7, 2013 17:34:12 GMT -6
The Mexican girl didn’t offer Vasile an immediate response yet for once, Vasile didn’t really mind. While usually he would have teased her about her silence, possibly continuing his playful little act even further to see if that netted him a better reaction, this time the Romanian did nothing but stand still and wait, eyes not really focused and smile anything but genuine. For once, he did nothing to try and break the eerie silence that threatened to envelop them both - quite on the contrary, he actually welcomed it. After all, he had come to the Infirmary in hopes of finding a nice, quiet healing place - not someone to exchange greetings and chitchat with. He didn't really feel capable of holding any kind of conversation right now and even if he could have, he would've refrained. Talking happily with someone only hours after murder as if nothing had happened... now that would have been way too cruel. So cruel it felt utterly impossible a thought, yet Vasile was sure there were those who would’ve managed it. He’d seen them in the past - beasts hiding away under a human skin and a smile.
Monsters.
As the girl raised her hand, the Romanian's tired gaze followed without him making any conscious effort to do so. Yet, although he was looking straight at the stitches on her palm, he couldn't really feel like he saw anything. He didn't feel in control of his body; it was as if he had been someone else, just staring at everything happening from inside a shell of a body not quite his own. Since when had he felt like that? Ever since he saw the girl, he supposed. Perhaps it was his way of guarding his feelings and his guilt - or protecting the girl from seeing his anguish and infecting her with it. Either or. He couldn't find it in himself to really care to find out.
For what felt like a silent eternity, Vasile just stared at Ana’s palm along with her, usually focused eyes void of life, dull and slightly closed; he couldn’t keep them fully open after all, as the utter redness of her blood - of the liquid slowly trickling down her wrist - was way too intense, too blinding for him to handle. It seemed as if it was glowing, drowning out every other color in existence and dying everything that same shade of cruel, relentless red, so that no matter where the Romanian might have turned, he couldn't escape its red-hot scorch. Where had she sustained such injury? Why was she bleeding such brilliant red so intensely? Why did she not do anything to stop it? He couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand someone's pain right now.
So, in an attempt to pull away from that painful sight, Vasile nudged himself to take a look at the girl behind the injury instead. He could only barely make out the other’s form beyond the crimson and the darkness but from what he saw, she had seen better days; she looked worn, tired, torn both on the inside and outside alike, and although the wound on her hand looked positively painful, she didn't seem to flinch a bit even when the stitches kept getting undone and the blood continued journeying down onto the carpet below. That was never a good sign. For someone not to care about their own pain one way or another, they had to be rather shaken. The Romanian could only guess what had happened to her. It was as if she'd just seen something she wasn't quite ready for yet. He'd seen the look before, after every single war he'd emerged from. It was the look of someone who had won, yet couldn't feel victorious. The look of someone who had killed, jus t-
It was then that everything in Vasile's body froze, from his thoughts to the endless red spreading throughout his field of vision. Clarity penetrated his foggy, depressed mind and brought a light to his eyes, as an almost impossible possibility slithered into his mind.
And for the first time in a few hours, Vasile could actually feel his expression changing. He felt back in his own body now, able to feel, breathe and think like before. The makeshift smile he’d worn melted as the Romanian’s breathing grew faster, and as his mask vanished completely, it revealed underneath a face of sudden realization. Could it... truly be? Had she really gone through what he had just now? The emptiness behind her smile, the perceived difficulty to find words and the silent guilt he could have sworn he sensed linger around her unmoving form... had she just killed a person - nay, a nation? Swiped away an entire people and their culture? Or was he just... projecting his own problems onto her out of desperation? After all, that was common human behaviour; since humans, at their core, could only ever truly understand themselves and their own feelings, they very often subconsciously sought to explain others’ actions and quirks using their own morals and logic. A very stupid act indeed when you considered how many humans there were on the planet and how unlikely it was one of them shared the exact same ideals and feelings with you, yet it was nonetheless understandable. Humans couldn't stand not understanding something, so they had to explain it with something, no matter how inaccurate that explanation. He understood it well.
Yet, despite knowing all that, for her to have went through the same thing he had… it... it wasn't that farfetched a thought, was it? Not at all, when you thought about it; in the first place, it was doubtful he had been the only nation caught in the skeletons’ game - he had figured so much out even before he'd left the room he had been trapped in. The matchup had been random, and there had been no special award or announcement by the masterminds after it was all said and done. That could only mean the match wasn't that special to them, wasn't interesting enough by itself to warrant direct commenting on. Then, surely, there had to be others they were watching as well. Other matchups. Others who died. Others who[ i]killed. [/i]
The more the Romanian thought about the possibility and how likely it was to be true, the more he felt life return to his features. His heart was racing from anxiety over not knowing, as well as from anticipation over finding out whether his theory once again held true. Curiosity filled him as did relief, unwarranted and wrong as it was; this really was not the time to feel relieved - hadn't he just theorized other nations than just South Italy had died? Really, who in their right mind rejoiced upon hearing more than one nation disappear from the world in the matter of hours? Well, any human, to tell the truth. After all, humans wanted to know they weren’t suffering alone, even if it meant indirectly wishing ill on others.
“I’m not the only one.”
“I’m not the only one who did wrong.”
“They cannot blame me.”
“I’m not alone.”
How often did humans utter those desperate words in their search for comfort? Vasile had witnessed such people and such words so many times during the centuries past. He'd seen humans at their worst - kings, criminals and peasants alike, as all of them were, in the end, one and the same and similarly fragile. Similarly weak.
Just like him.
Vasile hated feeling relieved. He hated it, yet he couldn’t help repeating the same sentences he'd heard so many times in his head, over and over again like a record left to play alone in darkness.
"I'm not the only one."
He had to know if his theory was right. Had to find out if he truly wasn't the only one who made a decision so cruel, so inhumane that it had destroyed thousands of lives. He had to ask. Had to, because the more he dwelled on all of it, the more guilt he started to feel again.
“Mex-,” Vasile began in a hushed, slightly anxious breath, yet before he could so much as hope to finish his sentence a hand - still dripping crimson - entered his field of vision and shushed whatever words he was about to utter. The blood caught his eyes again and he raised his gaze to meet the woman's, only to see her lips slowly move into forming words.
The Romanian could see those two short, powerful words flow from Ana's lips far before they could reach his ears.
"Go ahead."
Her tone was distant, empty, not at all like he remembered it to be from the last time they had spoken at a World meeting. Her words carried power, yet no trace of life of any kind. They sent shivers down the European’s spine and brought a stop to all his previous thoughts. It brought back the reality of the situation. It brought back the guilt. Really, what was he doing? Was he truly… really wishing unto others the horror he was going through himself? Really? Why? Just so he could say he wasn’t the only one? Just to have someone to relate to?
No.
Just one glance at the Mexican and her hand, and the words she had spoken earlier rushed back into Vasile's mind, carrying with them so many emotions the Romanian found it hard to handle. Desperation, guilt, sorrow and defeat, all feelings he unfortunately could claim to be awfully familiar with today. And now... now, for a while, he had almost indirectly rejoiced over someone else having to experience them.
Only a short peek at the Ana's eyes was enough to spell out to the Romanian what exactly he was for allowing his own comfort to take precedence over all others’.
A monster.
That one single word effectively closed Vasile's mouth in mid-sentence before he could ask the question he was supposed to. He lowered his gaze, newly found shame now accompanying all the other negative feelings already gathered into his chest. The silence was burning. As much as he had liked it before, he truly hoped something would break it soon, since for as long as it continued, the words the Mexican had spoken kept echoing in his mind, refusing to yield. Go ahead, she had said. Go ahead and lick my blood. Did she even know what she was saying? Did she know how dangerous it was to give a stranger a permission for something like that? She had just come out a fight a winner, and now she was offering her hand, and by extension, her wrist, to someone who might have sought to hurt her. To someone who, according to both rumors and his current attire, had a very high chance of being a blood sucking creature of the night. Did she really trust him that much? Or was there another reason for this? And was it even truly a permission she had given him - or was it a request?
Vasile had meant it as a joke. It had been something he'd voiced on a whim in an attempt to sound like his usual self. In truth the mere thought of tasting someone else’s - or even his own - blood was anything but enticing to him. It was something he hadn't done even for show or 'authenticity' when it came to his vampire act, not ever in his line. It was a line he hadn't been willing to cross, even if it meant getting busted as a fake. And yet, now... swatting Ana's hand away or backing away from it would have felt like swatting away her feelings, like distancing himself from someone who sought his help.
That, too, was something he couldn't do.
So without thinking, without skipping a breath or blinking an eye, Vasile reached for the woman’s hand, gently caressing her fingers with his thumb as he took the palm into his own. His heart was racing and the red, the brilliant red that kept staining her tanned palm more and more every second... as it approached his lips, it didn’t feel as disgusting as he would have thought. It looked like a release. Release from guilt. After all, had he not just lamented how he had walked out a scene of murder without so much as a stain to remind him of the grim act he'd just committed? Hadn't he felt too clean to ever be able to forgive himself? Then, if he sullied himself with her blood now, perhaps he could make up for it. If he licked it all up like the monster he was, if he let it flow down his throat and stain his insides as well, then perhaps, just perhaps... His breath hot on her fingers, Vasile brought his lips to her palm, crimson staring into crimson. What did guilt taste like? What words could describe the sensation of sin on your tongue?
He was about to find out.
Vasile relaxed his form and allowed his back to bent just slightly as he leaned forward, pale lips brushing against the blood on her hand, just beside the wound. He closed his eyes, the red flowing from past ruined stitches finally disappearing from his sight as he parted his lips and let his tongue run across her skin.
He didn't speak a word. He didn't move. He hardly breathed; every inch of his being was focused on the careful movements of his tongue, the wound, the blood, and consuming every single drop in sight. The blood tasted bitter in his mouth, but he figured that was natural.
After all, he wasn't a real vampire.
He was just a human trying to soak away his guilt.
Just a monster.
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OOC: Holy fuck, I'm so sorry this got so long akdjhajdeqwead rushed towards the end too because I realized how big this was ahahaha.
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Survivor
Offline.
Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on Jan 12, 2014 23:21:46 GMT -6
Mexico thought Romania was kidding. She didn't think he was serious as to want to taste the blood that was pouring from her hand. The girl stared at the European in front of her. She didn't know what to say. She felt compelled to close her hand and step away from the man. She wanted to take a step backwards and leave, close the door to the infirmary and lock him out, lock it all out. It was as though she couldn't breathe. The smell of the red liquid was beginning to become a prominent odor in her nostrils. It had taken a life of its own, forming hands that were choking her.
When Ana María was younger, much younger than now, before she was Mexico or New Spain, before she was conquered and she was born, human sacrifices were part of her routine. She was the newly founded city of Tenochtitlán. She was the heart of the Aztec Empire. When there was war and warriors were taken from the enemy and strapped down to their vulnerability, they would be offered to the gods. Ana María would watch their hearts, still fresh in blood and life, be rose before them all as a gift to those they couldn't see but always believed were there.
Mexico was not one to faint at the sight of blood. She wasn't one to squirm or cringe or look away. She would heal the wounded and nurse them to their dying breath. She had seen men being blown up. Their hands, their feet, their heads, everything falling apart, being ripped from where they belonged. Mexico knew, she had learned that blood was a part of life but it wasn't until that very moment, her stitches done just halfway through and her body poisoned with alcohol that she felt sick.
But she didn't let go of her words.
Ana María watched how the Romanian reached for her hand and caressed her fingers with such delicacy that it almost mimicked the movements of a love one. She watched with curiosity how he didn't break. He didn't walk away or yell or did anything that would prove his argument that he wasn't a vampire. He just licked her blood. A tear fell down her brown eyes and landed on the European. Ana María allowed tears to do what they do best because she felt relieved. The emotional turmoil that had gathered up inside her, accusing her of a murdered and a sadist seemed to vanish, if only for a moment.
“Thank you.” Her words fell as a whisper. Like she could finally breath after wearing a dagger around her chest for so long.
She didn't know why she did what she did. She didn't know why when Vasile had asked to drink her blood she complied. Maybe it was because her blood was stained with the blood of those who had died because of her. Maybe because the thick and rich pigment of liquid represented everything that she was and that her country stood for. It was the blood of mistakes made and things accomplished. It was of regret and guilt and pleasure and pain. She wanted a relief. She wanted to forget. Ana María caressed the strands of blonde hair from the Romanian's head and kissed his forehead while he still licked her palm. Her eyes were still watery and her voice was not her own but rather a distorted sound of the person she used to be. But still, she spoke.
"What happened to you?" She asked. "It's okay, you can tell me. I have done something awful too." To hear it said out loud was the last straw of reality that she needed. It made everything that had happened more real, more prominent in her mind. The scene played again like an old tape recorder and with every memory her heart ached in a way she couldn't conceive at the moment. She was mourning.
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Vasile Ionescu
Survivor
Played by Roma.
Offline.
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players"
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Post by Romania on Apr 14, 2014 11:37:46 GMT -6
Vasile didn't know how long it had been since he'd started his grim, gruesome task. He didn't know if it had been seconds, minutes or hours by now - and the utter, endless silence that had descended upon the two broken nations the second his tongue had met with the woman's soft, tanned skin, gave him no chances to even begin guessing. It hardly mattered to the Romanian anyway; to him, it felt as if time had stopped completely on its tracks ages ago, killing both of their breath and hushing them into an eternity of silent suffering, alone and forgotten in this room meant to serve as a place of salvation for the wounded.
Ironic and cruel as it was, Vasile couldn't find it anything but fitting. Their hearts might have pounded wildly against their chests, but for all intents and purposes, they were both death, already claimed by whatever sorrows they harbored; she was bleeding out her sins, and he was drinking them all up. Eventually, she would run dry and he would drown, and for whatever reason, the thought didn't bother Vasile nearly as much as it should have. Worries and thoughts didn't register anymore. He was at ease now, standing there with closed eyes and a bended back, making amends by helping a fellow sinner, numbing himself with someone else's pain, so that he wouldn't need to face his own. It was peace, but it was fragile, fabricated peace, weak and baseless enough that a single, silent tear falling upon Vasile's skin was enough to shatter his serene facade to a million pieces so tiny that he could not hope to put them together again. He flinched as the pain in his chest suddenly returned, but his licking didn't stop or slow, not even when the taste of the liquid he devoured returned in one overwhelming rush, reminding him unconditionally of what exactly he was doing. A shudder escaped him, but his eyes didn't flutter and his body didn't flinch. He merely stood and continued, the meaning behind the tear the most urgent concern in his mind. Was she crying? For what reason? Had he hurt her? Was this not what she wanted - had he interpreted her wrong? Perhaps he wasn't drinking her regrets but her life, like the vampiric creature he pretended to be.
It wasn't until two simple words left the Mexican's lips that Vasile finally gained an immediate, irrefutable answer.
“Thank you.”
The words were so silent, so delicate, that if the room hadn't been the quintessence of silence, Vasile would have probably missed them. But as things were, even that barely audible whisper felt powerful, like a hand reaching for him and pulling him up from beneath the deafening surface of uncertainty he'd about to fall in.
Vasile's eyes opened ever so slightly at the words, just enough for the dim light of the room to illuminate their crimson color and bring life to his otherwise pale, lifeless features. 'Thank you'. To think that two simple words could feel so powerful. Vasile felt his chest rise faster to match his slightly agitated breath at her words, temporary relief finding shelter at his mind. She had thanked him. He had managed, with the same mouth that ordered death just a few hours prior, to ease someone else's suffering. The tear had not been one of sorrow or sadness - but gratitude, perhaps even relief. The thought brought a slight smile to his lips, if only for a fleeting moment. He had been right. Maybe her offering her blood had indeed not been so much an offer but a plea; a silent prayer for someone to accept her despite the circumstances, to take her in and share her pain.
In an instant, the cruel, yet brutally comforting, thought of him not having been the sole man playing the role of a villain tonight entered his mind and pushed his heart to beat faster against his burning insides once more - only for Vasile to will the rush of emotions away without a second thought. No. No, he did not wish to receive comfort from such thoughts. It was but mere speculation still, anyway.
And yet, the fact remained that every passing second made his theory sound more sound. Perhaps they had more in common than one could perceive with the eye. Perhaps, just perhaps, they had both truly killed a nation.
Just then, a hand brushed against his hair ever so slightly that it felt like a gentle breeze of wind more than the touch of another nation. An involuntary, yet all the same pleasant shiver ran down his bent spine, and his senses flared as if to seek out more of that calming touch. She was caressing his hair now, and her motions lulled Vasile's eyes back close like a reassuring lullaby. Slowly, his thoughts and breathing calmed, and the Romanian let out a shaky breath against her palm, that brief exhale the only sound he'd made since he initially threw out his joking offer to lick her. The feeling of calm returned to him in small, almost timid waves, but this time, the peace he felt was not fake.
From the midst of his gradual descend back onto a nearly sleep-like state, he felt something warm and soft press against his forehead. A kiss. It was gentle, brief, but all the same warm, and it was enough to draw another small breath of relief from the man's lips. His body relaxed, the warmth spreading out into every inch of his body and soul. It was so peculiar; in normal circumstances in the outside world, such a kiss, pleasant as it was, would have hardly netted any deeper reaction from him, from most nations, he dared say. Yet here, right now and given by her, by someone who he was this connected with, it was the most powerful thing in the world, enough to reanimate a dead soul and an insecure mind, and Vasile found himself almost disappointed when the brief sensation of warmth, of closeness ended.
Even so, he didn't stop what he had started, didn't raise his gaze to meet hers or pause his tongue. He didn't allow himself to, for he feared he could not force himself to continue again afterwards.
"What happened to you?"
Words. A question. They sounded like such strange concepts to him now.
But not as strange as actually answering the question with words of his own.
How could he even begin? From the start, leaving the horrible conclusion to loom at the horizon of his tale? From the end, working his way backwards to try and explain away the act of cruelty he'd just admitted to? How should one start such a tale, how should they end it and what words should they choose?
How, exactly, should one confess murder?
"It's okay, you can tell me. I have done something awful too."
Those words dug deep and brought surface a sudden jolt of suspicion.
Something... awful? Had she really, truly, been through the same thing as he had? Could she truly understand? Or was her 'awful' something less, something that paled in comparison to what he'd done? Humans were always so ready to think they understood the pain of their peers, so ready to try and mold others' experiences to fit their own for inane comparisons. But what they did not realize was that the limit of what they could comprehend was that they had felt, had seen themselves; humans could not grasp pain and sorrow beyond their own, and their fear, their ignorance kept them from even seeking to. Words of sympathy were an easy thing; true feelings of it difficult.
And yet, after what he'd felt and heard of her tonight, Vasile felt like Ana María could, truly understand him.
"Nothing", he whispered, his words so cold, so steady in their bitterness despite the turmoil inside him that it caught him by surprise. He only managed that one single word, yet encompassed in it was the entire truth, the original source of his pain and guilt. It was everything.
"Nothing happened to me", he spoke again with another whisper, his voice more broken, more shaky than before, if still cold. Each and every word dripped regret and echoed guilt, both mixing together in his mouth into a bitter concoction of lament. His lips got stained on her blood as he spoke, but he knew that if he prevented himself from speaking out now, he would not be able to force out his voice again, perhaps ever.
"I'm fine~"
And yet, Vasile wasn't sure why he kept talking, when every word was a dagger in his throat.
"See?" His question was quiet, tone forced to raise into something faintly resembling a laugh, the entirety of it spoken from behind a dry grin - a mere mockery of his usual smirks and beams. He was playing his role so pathetically today. Perhaps the part of a villain truly suited him more - reassuring words seemed to hardly be his forte now. "I'm not hurt at all!"
But he was - and so was she.
And that was the only reason he dared speak to her with nothing but such a pitifully transparent mask protecting him.
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Survivor
Offline.
Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on Apr 14, 2014 12:54:58 GMT -6
Ana María always thought that she could feel, something inside her like a nagging sensation of things fluttering inside her, that made her empathize with someone else's pain. But her body now felt so distant. It travelled at a different speed and at a different pace than the rest of her. Though her wound had stung when her skin had absorbed the alcohol she had placed on in order to cleanse from infection, it felt like pain in the back of her mind. It was prominent but she wasn't sure it completely existed. Which is what she felt she was in this place. Though she knew where she was, what had happened and the bits and pieces of experience before coming upon the infirmary, she wasn't sure she was there all together. She floated around like a ghost. How did she know that this wasn't just a nightmare of the highest caliber? Would she wake up to realize that this had only happened inside her mind? And if so, why was her mind playing such tricks upon her body?
What was then the difference between reality and dreaming? What was real and what was not? Because if everything was real then the world would come crumbling down as entire civilizations ceased to exist. Nations were human and they were dying. Once they were gone there would be nothing to attach their people to the actual world. Though they had promised nations to be immortal, Ana María knew that no such thing was actually true. Nations weren't immortal, not completely at least. She had seen it happened. Entire civilizations being wiped out as a result of a stronger force conquering them. She was the result of that conquest. She was the living example that nations could die and have someone else take their place. Was this their time then? Had the clock finally set in on those who had outlived most of the people they knew?
One thing was certain, Ana María had done her job in exterminating a fellow nation. She had single handedly wiped out years of culture and tradition. There would be no one left to continue such civilization. She had committed the cruelest of atrocities, but she didn't feel guilty, not entirely. She wanted to forget all about it and when she recalled her crime her heart brought up the same pain that it had drowned on as she stood neck deep in guilt. Forget a nation? How could she forget such a thing? How could she shut her heart to a living being? If such nation was to be alive again, how could she apologize for something like that? There was no way.
Here's the thing though, when Ana María had agreed to let Vasile suck her blood, she didn't do it just to please his wishes or humor him with his vampire joke. She wanted to share the blood that ran inside her. The blood that she had spilled from someone else's body. She figured that if she wasn't the only one carrying the blood and therefore carrying the sins then they couldn't exist inside her and she wouldn't be the only one to stand trial. If she spread the virus then did the virus had the same power and influence over its host? No, it had to lose the more it spread. At least she hoped.
However, when she kissed Romania's forehead and she could feel him accepting her act of kindness, she knew that she couldn't just allow a stranger to carry a responsibility that did not belong to them. She couldn't be held responsible of poisoning someone else's conscience, even though she knew that he might be poisoned anyway. So she asked what he felt but he refused to acknowledge that there was something inside him that made him scream. He was mad, angry, exhausted, tired, guilty, sad, trapped, lost, naive, hurt, confused. He was fine.
"I know that something's wrong with you," she said. "There's is nothing that you should hide from a friend. I'm not going to hurt you. I just think that if we talk about it we can figure out what's going on inside. Like what are you running from? What do you want to hide?" Ana María wasn't wrong to guess that he was shutting his feelings because something kept poking him with a knife and it hurt more to acknowledge it than to pretend it didn't exist. But if it was real what he was feeling inside then he should know that keeping it locked up wasn't a way to live. She should know. She wrote the book on bottled feelings and ignorance of desire.
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Vasile Ionescu
Survivor
Played by Roma.
Offline.
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players"
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Post by Romania on May 15, 2014 20:46:43 GMT -6
Ana María was questioning his words.
That much was clear even before the girl spoke, and without Vasile having to raise his gaze to meet hers. He couldn't see or hear it, but he sure could feel it; a certain sense of sudden tension, of disappointment hanging in the air around them. A standstill, a story frozen in frame. Vasile could have sworn he tasted it on his tongue as the ever-slowing flow of blood met his lips once more.It was a cold sense of dread he felt, one whispering him that what he had done had not been enough. His answer had not been a satisfactory one for her, not eased her mind any. She had looked for something more, something only few could provide in a situation like this; what she wanted was the honest, untouched truth.
What she didn't know or realize however, was that he had, in fact, already given that very thing to her. Because, although Vasile's expression and tone had both been faked, his words hadn't. He had told the truth - she had just not interpreted it as such, which Vasile understood wholeheartedly. Anyone would have done the same, and Vasile had intended to leave it at that on purpose, to not explain, to not go further, and to hopefully change the subject to something completely different after.
But how could he, after what she said next?
You cannot hide anything from a friend. Talking helps in figuring out what exactly is going on inside.
She stated both as almost facts, unshaken and uncompromisable in her resolve, to the point it made Vasile stop and take a moment to regard her with admiration.
But she wasn't done, and every word out her mouth brought thoughts and emotions into the Romanian, one thought changing into the next in rapid succession as he attempted to answer her questions. Not to her, not to the world, but for himself.
What was he running from? What was he trying to hide? He knew, but he did not want the thought of either to enter his mind. He didn't want to think about it, not acknowledge it. But... her words of concern were genuine, and to not grace her with an appropriate response would have been a crime almost akin to murder in itself. He was making her, a friend, a fellow nation like the one he had slayed, worry. Here she was, ready to listen to him despite her own troubles and his vices, and what he did was not accept it, but to run from it. Run from a friend, from kindness, because he didn't think of himself deserving of such. Run like a coward, like a beast with its tail between its legs when light arrived to blind its eyes. Slither away like a shadow from the sun. That was the ugly truth, the ugly him inside.
And yet, she was willing to give chase to him, without even knowing what she was getting into. Without even knowing his crime. It was unfair. Cruel. She deserved more than this.
It was with that in mind, that Vasile allowed himself to breathe in audibly and, for the first time since he'd began, raise his gaze and meet hers above him. He didn't straighten his back when he spoke, because he felt it appropriate for him to stare up at her like this, from below her like a servant to royalty. She was regal. He was a coward.
But he was, at the very least, going to be honest.
"No," Vasile whispered, taking the time spent on uttering that word to think his next words through. "Really, like I said, nothing happened to me."
Oh, how he wanted to leave it at that and hide what came after.
"But that's the problem."
That's what I'm trying to hide.
"It was a fight to the death," Vasile explained, his words sounding foreign in his ears. They sounded strange, hollow, dead. But his eyes were the opposite; their gaze was deep, intense, and he felt like it spoke volumes more than his shaky words ever could. "I killed him." He had said it, just thrown it out into the air like it was nothing, like it was just another word among millions, crafted by humans for humans and carrying no special significance to him. He couldn't stop to think or weigh the words. He could only speak. "And yet, nothing happened to me. I'm fine."
His lips curled into a dry smile. "But I shouldn't be, yeah? It's unfair like this. I should bleed like you - no, I should bleed in your stead. In his stead, even. But I don't."
He thought he would stop there, thought he had nothing more to confess, but his heart poured further without him prompting it to do so. "And even though I want to, I can't bring myself to regret it, because you know, I would do it again. And again."
His eyes narrowed, and his words gained a darker, sadder and perhaps a touch more desperate, dangerous edge. "Just to stay alive."
He was done, his heart and mind empty. It would be her turn now, her turn to pour hers to him. He would listen and lick up every single drop of regret, no matter how bitter, like he did with her blood. After all, if he couldn't truly regret on his own, he would use hers. He would use everything he could to stay standing.
That wasn't the kind of nation Romania was - but it was the kind of human Vasile was.
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ooc: shit this sucks dsdfdasfr I'm so sorry and it's late too and all the goddamn angst and we need a happy thread and I am just going to roll off now. /cry
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Survivor
Offline.
Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on May 16, 2014 16:56:24 GMT -6
The best human quality that Ana María possessed was getting others to open up to her. She would listen to their troubles and present herself almost as a beacon of hope. As a nation, many things had happened to her. Most of them were strongly unpleasant and there didn't seem to be a nation alive that hadn't withstand the same amount of violence that had shaped her own history. As a nation she was strong, she understood pain and was able to withstand it. As a nation she used violence in war and tactics to get her way. She had been driven to the edge and then back to sanity. She had been split open, torn apart by her own people, ridiculed by nations much more powerful than herself. As a nation she understood the great sacrifice that came with killing someone else. As a human, she didn't.
When Vasile finally let go of all his emotions and allowed himself to explain, that's when Ana María understood. Nothing had happened to him. It hadn't made much sense before, for how could he be so distraught if nothing had indeed happened to him? But it was that emotion that had kept him locked away in this maze of a mind with several guilty glances and pokes of shame that wouldn't allow for him to find his way back. He had killed someone else, just as she had killed Serbia and Monaco. Both at the same time, but under different circumstances. Nothing had happened to him because he was still alive. Nothing, indeed.
And sometimes it is because there is nothing going on around ourselves, nothing that changes us or moves us forward or even pulls us back that we seek any sort of release. We want to feel something, even pain, just to remember that we are still alive. "I'm sorry." Ana María's voice came out as a soft but coarse whisper. The words seemed almost entangled inside her throat. She was a good listener but the way Vasile spoke broke her heart. Even if he claimed there wasn't any regret, which she could understand for if she were to be honest she would commit the crime twice if it meant coming out alive from it, there was still shame and shame could at times be more powerful than regret.
"I'm sorry," she said again, clearing her throat. Ana María was searching desperately for something to say but it seemed that she was drawing a blank. Now was not the time to be silent. She knew that at times when people desperately pour their heart out, they are also looking for some sort of comfort. They are looking for guidance, someone that knows better to tell them what to do, to tell them that it is all going to be fine. Sometimes it is not exactly what we're looking for, but it helps. However, none of those words came out of Ana María and for a moment she was terrified that she had shaken Vasile and convinced him to become vulnerable in front of her and yet not to be able to comfort him. So she did the only thing she thought would be better than words. Ana María leaned forward and hugged the Romanian.
She played with the strands of his blonde hair as she held him close, caressing his back every so often. "I understand," she said. "I would still do the same thing." The words poured out of her from every direction like rivulets of raindrops before she could stop it. Embracing Vasile, she froze. She replayed her own words in her head over and over again. It didn't matter that she was hurt. That her hand had stitches and that the alcohol could only barely mend the pain. She knew that given the exact same situation, under the same exact circumstances, she would still do the same thing because that's the human thing to do.
"I'm not going to lie to you and say that everything is going to be fine or that what you did, what we did, was not wrong." She let go of her embrace and looked at the Romanian in the eye. It was her own time to open her pandora box, even when the last time she had done so it had ended in catastrophe. "But if there is something I have learned is that in this place there is very little room for morals." She took a deep breath understanding what she was about to tell him. "I murderer nations too, and under the circumstances I had to make choice. It was either them or me and I chose me. I'm not proud but that's the truth. It might sound perfectly selfish but I had to choose me. There's no one in this place who's going to fight as hard as I will for my own survival."
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Vasile Ionescu
Survivor
Played by Roma.
Offline.
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players"
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Post by Romania on Jul 3, 2014 9:27:49 GMT -6
Ana María's unwarranted apology pained Vasile's chest, each and every instance of her uttering those two simple words feeling like a dagger thrust directly into his heart. The first time she had said it her voice had been weak, barely audible from the trembling of her throat, and although her second attempt did carry decidedly more power, it did not make Vasile any less pained to hear it. She had done nothing to require an apology, quite on the contrary; he was the one who should be down on one knee, head lowered in shame and mouth spewing apologies faster than his lungs drew breaths. He had told her what he truly felt like, and there wasn't a more selfish act in the world than that. For a person to push their troubles on someone else instead of enduring them himself... it was pathetic, unsightly.
"I'm sorry."
No, Vasile whispered to himself in his mind. I am.
He was sorry for being weak enough not to keep his secret, for being selfish, cruel enough to impose his troubles on her, when she should not have to be concerned over someone else in a place like this. Place that required survival - your own survival. He had hurt her. He could tell, because Ana María was without a shadow of a doubt, a good person.
And it was always the good that ended up wounded the most.
That's why he was fine.
Vasile opened his mouth, his trembling lips parting only an inch, but nothing came out. He wanted to offer her an 'I'm sorry' out loud, wanted to fill the silence he'd brought upon the two of them with at least an apology - he owed her that much -, but before his throat could remember how to form words and before his heart found the strength to bring them out, the Mexican had already shifted in front of him. Vasile raised his gaze to her from the sudden motion, only for his eyes to widen in surprise as the heat of her body suddenly pressed against his morbidly cold form, spreading life and emotion all the way from his chest to his blue-hued fingertips.
Why?
That was the only thing he could think of in that instant of sudden intimacy. He wanted to ask her what she was doing, question why she wasn't afraid he'd kill her if she did that, but her body silenced his every complaint and brought calm to his erratic thoughts, to the point he found no strength left to retaliate. So, the Romanian didn't let out a peep, nor did he move a muscle. He couldn't if he wanted to. Her body was a cage and it was a blanket he didn't want to cast aside for the fear of the cold that was to follow.
Her fingers played with his hair, much the same way they had when he had been licking her hand. Except this time, he wasn't being useful. He was being a burden. He was being cruel. And yet, she said that she understood him, and let her hand run across his back with no fear present in her form. It was unreal.
Until everything suddenly dawned on the Romanian.
"I would still do the same thing."
Vasile's crimson gaze snapped to the girl. What... was she saying? She would 'still' do the same thing? Was hers just an unfortunate choice of words, or perhaps the language barrier all of them had no doubt once faced, or was that one simple word deliberately there, to try and make him understand that she was not a stranger comforting a man she barely knew. No, rather, she was a woman of similar fate to his, a perpetrator in a crime comparable to Vasile's own. She was the same. She had done what he had.
And she would still do it again.
"Mexi... co?" Vasile whispered, that name more a question than anything else. He meant to continue but she spoke, and he saw it best to silence his tongue. It was her turn to speak. Her turn to confess.
"I'm not going to lie to you and say that everything is going to be fine or that what you did, what we did, was not wrong."
'What we did'. She made it sound like they were accomplices now, and Vasile didn't find it in himself to correct her, not even in his mind. He saw it rather fitting to be lumped together like that. It gave them a common label, and promised a common punishment for a common crime. It branded them, and that was what they deserved. Him and her. Only blaming himself and trying to paint her in a different light from him would be nothing short of insulting to her at this point. He wouldn't do it. He'd accept her confession and her sin, like she had accepted his.
The Mexican let go, and before Vasile had prepared himself for it, her dark eyes were staring into his, open and readable like a book on her past. He could almost see her standing above her victim, hand and heart bleeding. It was an ugly sight, but Vasile didn't avert his gaze. He was there for her to speak to. He would stand and he would accept, and he would do it with his crimson eyes on hers.
She spoke of morals, every word sounding like a preface to her actually saying out loud what both of them already knew at this point. But Vasile didn't rush her, he merely nodded as she drew in a breath.
Say it, he encouraged with silent words. Let it out.
And she did. Ana María, the nation of Mexico, confessed to murder right there and then, standing mere inches from the European Nation of Romania. And he didn't even flinch. He understood. Her words carried reason, even if half of it seemed to be for the sole purpose of convincing the girl herself that what she had done had been the only choice. Vasile knew. He truly knew.
But he could not find the words to convey anything he felt. Kinship, relief, and as misplaced as it was, compassion... There were no words or any of them. Just a stare, intense and all-telling. But he needed more than that. She deserved words. Here she'd been, shouldering the same pain he had, and instead of succumbing to it and letting it devour her, she had attempted to patch herself up - and she reached out to patch him up as well, when he himself wasn't able to do so. She was strong. She was beautiful.
And she deserved to know pain didn't befit her.
"You know," Vasile finally whispered, tone slightly raised, "if you don't choose you," he continued on, cold logic taking over his speech before his heart could interfere and spew lies. Every word was a realization as much as it was a statement. "Nobody will."
A small, bitter smile, and Vasile found his words flowing from his throat again, his eyes never leaving hers. "Because everyone will choose themselves. It's a sin we all have in common." He understood that now. It wasn't just him - and it wasn't just her, either. Romano might not have succeeded in shooting him, but he had tried. He had fired. She, too, was injured. She could have died. And had they fallen to someone else's victory, those victors would now be standing here in their stead, lamenting the same shame, searching for the same guilt. Everything would be the same, now and a thousand years in the future. That was human.
It was...
"Normal," he heard himself say, his voice more than just a monotone whisper by now. It was more familiar now, recognizable even to the Romanian himself. It was his voice, and it was there because he was still alive. "It's normal. We are not good. We are not in the right. And certainly, we are not without blame."
He smiled, because that was his thing to do whenever an opportunity presented itself. He remembered that now. "But we are normal."
He took her hand softly once more and turned it palm upwards, his thumb brushing past the wound that had almost closed.
"We're human."
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Survivor
Offline.
Why would I want to destroy something I helped build?
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Post by Mexico on Jul 18, 2014 15:21:34 GMT -6
Her words dripped through the sides of her silhouette, hugging her waist, grabbing her throat and whispering into her ear like a long lost lover with words of temptation and danger. She replayed her vocal chords, focusing on the different sounds they made and how they made her heart skip and beat and skip again in movements that were in no way normal but where the result of her own fear that there was never a moment when she could let her guard down and take a deep breath in relief. The voices inside her head echoed her words like mermaids at the bottom of a dark lake.
What she had admitted to Romania was not the first act of brutal truth that had happened ever since stepping inside the manor and that thought alone was unsettling for her. She was a nation that welcomed others, almost with intense passion and an unlimited supply of energy. But she was never someone to simply pour down what she felt or what she thought to close friends, let alone relative strangers. It was a barrier that had proven to be worthless inside of the manor especially when it had been these brutal acts of truth that seemed to make her less of a threat and more of a friend and that had saved her on multiple occasions.
What she had admitted to Romania was not the first act of brutal truth but it was the first time she had admitted that she was more than willing to purely look after herself and that was it. She was not proud of her actions, of that the two nations were aware of, but that didn’t mean that when the time came that wouldn’t be the case. The more she thought about it, the more Mexico began to grow wary that perhaps she was alone in this after all. She was an extremely loyal person, but as the circumstances had unsettled, she became more and more aware that she couldn’t really trust anyone not to do to her what she had done herself and that scared her.
If you don’t choose you, nobody will.
Ana María nodded. Her lips barely moved when she attempted to respond to Vasile’s words. We were human. We are human and she was human and that was almost too painful to admit. For she wasn’t even sure why, but saying such a thing seemed to reduce her to a certain level of irrelevance that she had never truly been in touch with. “I don’t want to be human,” she said with surprise. “I want to be what I’ve always been. I want to be me.” Ana María sighed as she sat at the edge of a small crippled bed that didn’t seem to be slept on for a hundred years but somehow still managed to support her weight. “I want to be a nation. I hate having to run around for my life like it’s a part of some sick, sadistic television reality thing. It’s not funny and I’m tired and-” She closed her eyes for a second and then opened them again as her eyes concentrated on the blood stains on the ground that stopped having any real meaning or emotions attached to them.
“Why do we run? Why don’t we just fight it? Not alone but everyone together. Aren’t you tired too? I mean, these monsters are not invincible and I don’t want to run anymore. I want to fight them. Call it revenge or whatever but I don’t to stay hidden in the infirmary, tearing over a hand wound that yes, it did hurt but it’s like it’s fatal,” Mexico turned to look at Romania and looked at him intently with those dark eyes of her that were hard to break apart from. “I’m not crazy, am I?”
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