DISCLAIMER: THIS IS ONE OF MY DARKER STORIES. TRIGGER WARNINGS AND CHARACTERS ARE LISTED, MORE OR LESS, IN THE ORDER THEY APPEAR. IF YOU DON'T LIKE DARK STORIES, DON'T READ THIS. THANK YOU.
⚠️Trigger Warnings; PTSD flashbacks, wwii gas chamber, suffocation, burning alive, wwii live experimentation, intense pain, immense fear, implied past rape/non-con, comatose character, severe phobias, mentioned torture, severe anxiety, Berlin Wall escape⚠️
Characters: Gilbert Beilschmidt (Prussia/GDR), Implied General Winter, unnamed doctors, Matthew Williams (Canada), Arthur Kirkland (England), Francis Bonnefoy (France), Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany), Alfred F. Jones (America), Antonio Fernandez Carriedo (Spain), Ivan Braginski (Russia), Eduard VonBock (Estonia)
Word Count: 2000 words
The frigid touch of the cold, familiar hands made him gasp, crimson eyes widening in fear. He ran his hands over his skin, trying to chase away the feeling, trying to ignore the sneer that insisted on tainting his thoughts. He shook his head, squirming in his spot to try and escape the fingers that were grabbing, pressing, clawing, drawing gasping cries from his lips. Hot tears trailed down his cheeks, choking his voice as he tried to call for help, praying for someone to find him, to save him from the hell he knew was coming.
A terrible burning in his throat snatched his words from him, leaving him trying desperately to inhale the precious oxygen he needed. He coughed hard, trying to get rid of whatever was stealing his breath. It didn’t help for long though. Soon, he could feel his head spin, drifting him in and out of consciousness. He hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes until they opened to a gentle orange glow. A deep, ragged breath forced its way into his lungs, filling them with the much needed oxygen. A scream forced its way from his throat, making him that much more aware of his surroundings.
The light and warmth of the fire would have been comforting under nearly any other circumstance. But now, as he pulled at the ropes he found binding him to a wooden post, the fire was too bright, too hot, pulling him in and licking at his skin as he cried and thrashed. The burns spread across his skin, biting up his body as the flames climbed his clothes. His screams sounded far off, as though that terrified sound wasn’t coming from him, but from another creature. The added pain of his tears dripping into cuts he hadn’t even realized he had had made him cry out again, more tears falling which only added to the pain.
The brightness of the fire was interrupted by black dots speckling his vision. His head was reeling and he relished the feeling of unconsciousness washing over him, cooling the burning and giving him just a moment of peace before it became too cold. He could hear words, words from his language. But were they? He couldn’t understand them but the harsh way the vowels and consonants hit his ears was much too familiar for it to be a foreign language. Finally finding a sliver of strength left in him, he forced his eyes open once again, revealing the ruby irises to piercing gazes, as though the people surrounding him were vultures set on devouring him for all he’s worth.
An attempt to shift was stolen by the straps of leather that held him in place. This wasn’t right. He knew something was off. Even with that realization, he found that he didn’t know where- or in this case, when- he was. He blinked hard, trying to clear his blurry vision before he felt an overwhelming pain overtake him. Try as he might, he couldn’t place where the pain was coming from. All he knew was that he felt like he was on fire again, pain coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. At first, he thought he might have woken back up in the stretching flames that seemed to constantly pull him back before remembering the straps that bound him.
A far off scream sounded, confusing him until he realized it was coming from him again. He felt sick. It felt like he’d been screaming for hours, making his voice raw from the exertion. Even so, it was better than forcing himself to stay silent through the excruciating pain. His eyes must have closed again because moments later he opened them again, revealing the hazy room around him. This time it seemed nicer. No longer an experimentation room, but a nice bedroom, clad in gentle blues. He found that he was surrounded by curious, worried faces, fixing their eyes of blue and green on him. Sitting up quickly, he pressed himself back against the headboard, looking around at the indistinct faces all around him before his eyes met a pair of cool violets.
He screamed again, feeling an inexplicable sense of fear wash over him. The next thing he knew, he was kicking at the purple-eyed man, the others around him quickly grabbing at his limbs and keeping him from moving. A language he recognised as english was spoken quickly to him but he wasn’t able to comprehend the words. The people held him down and a fresh wave of panic exploded in his chest. Yet again, he was screaming, piecing together the horrible thing that always happened after this point. Babbled German pleas managed to slip from his lips until he realized that no one was approaching him. He glanced down at himself to find he was still fully clothed, the only skin showing around his hands where his shirt ended.
Scarlet eyes flickered around the room again, finally managing to focus on the faces now that his mind wasn’t spinning with the question of all the unknowns. The hands on his arms and legs slowly released him since he was no longer thrashing around. His eyes first connected with a pair of emerald greens. Studying the man, he saw pale skin, blonde hair, and large eyebrows that made him realize that this was England. Looking down the line of people surrounding his bed, he recognised them one by one. France and Germany on one side of the brit with America, Spain, and finally Canada on the other side. Each of them looked really concerned, sending him silent questions with their eyes.
The albino took a shaky breath, closing his eyes and focusing on the steady thump, thump, thump, of his heart as it slowed from its panicked pace. “I’m ok.” He said softly, hearing that his voice was raw, most likely from his screaming. “Sorry if I woke you guys..” The usually strong, enthusiastic tone was dulled, all his excitement stolen from him years before.
“Amigo, you’re not ok. You’ve barely spoken to any of us since you got back from Russia’s house. You have nightmares every time you go to sleep, you have flashbacks during the day, you won’t look anyone in the eyes, you won’t let Canada around you, you haven't touched so much as a drop of beer since you got here-” The spaniard was cut off by France putting a hand on his shoulder. “I think you should go to a doct-”
“No!” Gilbert hadn’t realized he was the one that had cried out, cutting off his friend’s words before he’d even finished speaking, until he noticed everyone looking at him in shock and confusion. “I-I’m not going to a d-doctor.” It was almost as though he had to force the word from his tongue, a shudder going down his spine at the mere thought of it. Too many memories. Too much, it was too much. He gasped, flinching away as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning his head, he saw the kind eyes of his brother and he threw himself into the strong German’s arms, holding him tightly. This isn’t a dream. That's what he kept telling himself. This isn’t a dream. I won’t wake up in that damn house that’s always too cold. I won’t wake up on an operating table, I won’t wake up gasping for air, I won’t wake up in the middle of a fire. I won’t. I can’t. This isn’t a dream. I won’t wake up. A gentle squeeze from his brother helped to reassure him that everything was ok. He let out a breath, feeling the stress flow out of him at each loving caress across his back, reassuring him that he isn’t alone.
He had been living with Spain, Germany, and the european part of the Allies for nearly a week now and every time he was feeling upset by his seemingly endless flashbacks, his brother’s firm hold always brought him back to reality. Or so he thought. He soon realized the hands on him weren’t that of his brother’s. The warmth he had felt around him in the Allies' house was quickly stolen from him, replaced by that terrifyingly familiar chill that infected everything. He let his eyes slowly flutter open to show him a childish smile and sharp violet eyes. Ash blond hair told him that it wasn’t Canada this time.
A scream tore itself from his throat. His stomach dropped and he scrambled to get away from the man before him. “Ah, krolik! You’re finally awake!” The voice was too cheery, too calm, as though he’d never done anything wrong. “There’s no need to be afraid, da? You’re ok. You’re home. And you won’t think of leaving, da?”
The albino nodded quickly. “D-Da. Da, never. I’ll never leave.” He felt sick. He used to want to run, to scream at the Russian until his voice gave out. It had taken over a decade to rid him of these thoughts, but now the thought rarely crossed his mind. He had quickly learned that disobedience causes pain. However, the sight of that broken family had been too much for him. They had been split up when the wall had gone up four years prior. He had covered for them, protecting the mother and her son as they ran, bullets parting his skin and whizzing past the three of them. While Gilbert had collapsed just before they got to the West, the family had made it safely. He had tried to drag himself the rest of the way but he was shot over and over, feeling the blood fill his lungs, drip down his legs, pulsing from the countless wounds he had received as he finally fell unconscious.
The next week after he woke up had been nothing but torture from his ruthless captor. “Pain is a great teacher, don't you think, krolik?” Russia had said, a cruel glint in his eyes as he stared down the albino. There was nothing Gilbert could do other than give in and let himself be overpowered day after day until his body couldn’t take any more and had stopped working almost entirely.
“Khorosho. I’ll send Estonia up to tend to anything you need.” He said cheerfully, walking out and leaving Gilbert to his thoughts. Was this a dream? Was he really still in Russia? He prayed for this to be a dream. Just another sick dream that he’d wake up from with a waiting embrace from his brother. It wasn’t real. He kept telling himself this until the door opened and Estonia walked in, a somewhat surprised look on his face.
At a questioning glance from Gilbert, the baltic explained. “GDR, you’ve been in a coma for two months.” He said. “We could tell you were still alive because you’d scream for hours. But, other than that, no one could get a reaction from you. You wouldn’t wake up no matter what we tried. We almost thought you wouldn’t wake up.”
Gilbert stared at him in disbelief as he was filled in on what had happened. A slow nod told Estonia that the albino had heard. “Can-” He cleared his throat as his voice broke. “Can you just give me some alone time?” The blonde nodded and walked out with one last glance at Gilbert. Once the door was closed, a surge of fear washed over him. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a dream. He was in West Germany with his brother and Spain and the allies and this was all just a dream. Crimson was sealed by pale eyelids as he closed his eyes tightly. Wake up. Wake up, wake up, please, just wake up. He opened his eyes, hoping for the warmth of his brother’s house, for the sight of all his friends standing around him. A rock settled itself in his gut as he finally understood. He had already woken up.
° • • • °
Translations
Amigo (Spanish): Friend
Krolik (Russian): Rabbit
Da (Russian): Yes
Khorosho (Russian): Good
If I've messed any translations up or if there's a word that would fit better, please let me know. A majority of my translations come from google. Thank you all for taking the time to read this and have an amazing day/night!