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HetaOni: Sight"I never thought I would envy people who can't "See" so badly."
What was I thinking? Why did I say that? Why was I so stupid? Why did I put that bait out for fate to grab? Why did I jinx myself to this curse of eternal blackness?
How I wish I could see anything at all now. America's obnoxious grin. Canada clutching that polar bear of his in shyness. Italy's curl bouncing up and down as he runs. Heck, I'd even put up with having to look at France if it meant I could escape this shroud of darkness!
But it's too late. My cards have been dealt, and fate has been sealed. My irises are forever clouded; my vision the same whether I close my eyes or open them. All I can do now is attempt to hear the things I miss, try to pick up the clues my surroundings leave me.
And hear things I do.
The trembling in America's voice when he talks to me, as if he's about to burst out into apologies that aren't his to make. Canada's quiet voice asking me if I need anything. France stepping up to his role of "b
HetaOni: Reunited In DeathPain racks my body as I slide down to the floor, my legs losing their ability to hold my weight. I press a hand to my ragged side, a side that's almost nothing but shreds of skin.
I can hear Italy crying, and even though my vision is darkening, I can see the tears that are falling from his eyes.
Please, don't cry, Italy. Everything will be alright. I will be fine. Just run along now, Italy. Please. Stay here any longer, and that monster is sure to come again.
Prussia, please, take him away from here. Take care of him. He's fast, but he's not strong. If that monster catches him, he has no chance. Please, my Bad Friend, take care of him.
Your voices are all fading now. I can feel death reaching for me, welcoming me with open arms.
I have lived so long. We all have; we're nations, our lifespan indefinite. Can we die? Apparently, yes, judging from how I know that my time in this world is about to come to an end.
And I am ok with that. We made a new breach at least; the others can escape. I
HetaOni: VisionsEverywhere he looks, he sees blood.
Blood on white walls. Blood on wood floors. Blood on a piano. Blood on carpets.
Blood on nations.
The crimson color coats their uniforms and skins, dull eyes staring blankly into the distance, never to see again. Arms hang limply at their sides, never to move of their own free will ever again. Legs splayed out, sometimes broken in awful ways.
And then there is the monster.
It is always there. Big, hulking, the color of England's cooking. Claws stained with the crimson that coats everything else.
It prowls the hallways, searching for the nations, determined to rip their flesh apart. It never stops. It never sleeps. It just keeps going, slicing down anyone in its path, dealing mortal blows to anyone unlucky enough to cross it.
And with each death, there is always wailing.
Always, always there is that anguished wailing. The wailing of someone who has not only lost a friend, but also has failed in whatever their objective was. A wail of complete and utte
HetaOni: ForgottenMy blood seeps out through the tears in my clothes, spilling out onto the cold ground and staining the wood dark.
I struggle to take a breath, my chest shakily rising and falling with each one. The time between them begins to increase, signaling that my own time is coming to a close.
With weary eyes, I look through my cracked lenses, clinging to the vain hope that in my final moments, someone will be there for me.
Of course, there is no one.
It does not surprise me; even before we all started to forget about those who were here, they never remembered me. I was the ghost in the background. The one no one remembered, let alone even attempted to.
Will they even realize I'm gone? I doubt it. They have never remembered me anyways; even my own brother can't remember me for over two seconds.
What was the point to my life if even he couldn't remember me?
I gasp out painfully, my vision starting to blacken around the edges. I feel like crying when I realize that I'm about to die in this hell al
HetaOni: Sleep'You can only sleep when you're dead.'
He had never understood that phrase. Loving his siesta time, sleep was as valuable to him as breathing.
Now, though, his life and the lives of his friends were wrapped around him obeying that phrase.
His brown eyes remained wide open, his gaze dating around the room with watchful wariness.
He did not care that the place was locked tight and the Thing could, supposedly, never find them; he no longer laid trust in anyone or anything but himself. He had to get them out of here, and to do so, he must do everything in his power to make things go perfectly.
Including not sleeping.
If he fell asleep, they would be vulnerable to the Thing. He must be alert at all times, ready to combat the Thing and drive it back, away from his friends. He must never let his heavy eyelids fall.
He does not let the others know about his sleepless nights; too many questions would arise. Questions he could not answer, for the sake of their safety.
And then, undoubtedl
HetaOni: Find Me"Is it you? Is it really you?"
You're waking up, aren't you? You're finally realizing the truth. I can see the realization in your eyes, clarity lighting them with a hope I have not seen since you set foot in this accursed mansion.
Yes, it is me. Your best friend now is the best friend you lost centuries ago. My name is different and my memories are gone, but it is me. I am still with you. Apparently, fate has wrapped us in bonds of friendship so strong that we can't truly stay apart.
And it is a good thing, as you need me now. You need me now more than you have ever needed me before.
And by that, I don't mean that you need him. You need me. For I have a message that only I can give you. One that could potentially end the painful cycle you go through. One that could finally save you, him, and everyone else.
But in order to do so, we must be face-to-face. I must deliver my message to you in person.
I have already tried to contact you through your dreams. It does not work; you avo
HetaOni: CircleThey always circle back to me, no matter how hard he tries to keep them away.
Fate seems to have bound them to me; try as they might, they always end up in my room, very often to paint my white frame crimson. They never intend to; it just happens. We always meet again.
Especially the one in white.
Fate seems to have cruelly bound us together; I have lost count of how many times he has visited me. I know each time that he comes here now, he is filled with anxiety, like someone has walked over his grave.
Unbeknownst to him, he has. That very first time, his broken body lay against one of my legs, his blood staining both the floor and me.
His friend, the copper-haired time traveler that tries to keep them out, tried so hard to save him. He pleaded so hard for the dying one to remain in this world, to not cross over to the other side.
But, alas, his friend went to the other side anyway. It was too late; his soul had already boarded the train and headed on out.
The copper-haired time travel
HetaOni: NightmareEngland is in the middle of the first decent night of sleep he's gotten since entering the mansion when he is roughly kicked in the side.
It takes several more kicks, but eventually the island nation is pulled from dreamland and dragged back to reality.
"What the…?!" He mumbles in groggy irritation as he rolls over, ready to yell at the person who disrupted his sleep. His anger dies down when he sees the source.
America is thrashing about on his mattress, eyes shut tightly in fretful sleep. Judging from the words escaping his lips and the sobs mingled with them, whatever he's dreaming is as much of a hell as this mansion.
"England… England, no… England, please!..."
Worried, England sits up and grips his brother's shoulder. He shakes it roughly, trying to calm him down and bring him back to the nightmare that is their reality. "America. America, wake up. America!"
His former colony wakes up with a loud gasp, blue eyes shooting wide open with terror. Disoriented and panicke
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More