Cracked

Hungary- Symphony

The clang of frying pan on bony flesh. Music to her ears. She knew a thing or two about music, from living with Austria for so long, but after hearing the beautiful symphony of metal on skin and the breathtaking opera of his pained screams, she wondered how she could ever go back to her husband's terrible excuse for pianism. She should have recorded this, hers and Prussia's two person orchestra. Hungary on percussion, Prussia on vocals. They had chemistry. They'd've been a good duet if one of them wasn't dead on the floor.
She cast a lingering glance at the bruised body at her feet. The blood trickling from his temple and staining his hair looked striking: deep, dark red against almost translucent white, echoing the crimson pigment in his eyes. Artistic.

She kicked his limp white and purple arm. Prussia, the bastard. Never left her and Austria alone. Always getting in the way of their happiness. Stealing his vital regions at the drop of a hat. Not even letting them share a kiss. Anything more... colourful was out of the question.

So she'd let the percussion orchestra play on.

It started with two beats of a drum, first sharp as her pan hit his head, then dull as his unconscious body hit the floor.

Then, the steady beat of her pulling him down the stairs to the basement.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

For a few seconds, silence. Then began the triangle, the steady chink chink chink as she tightened the chains around his pale, thin wrists.

A pan to his chest, cushioned by his muscles, like a timpani.

Thump, thump, again and again and again.

Pan on chest

Like a timpani.

He opened his eyes, and so began the vocals.

The timpani didn't stop, but now a countertenor accompanied it.

Low thump.

High scream.

Low thump.

High scream.

On and on and on, timpani, countertenor, timpani, countertenor. Every so often, the hollow, wood-block sound of ribs cracking.

The timpani stopped. After a second, so did the countertenor, giving way to a baritone moan.

"Hu-"

His attempt at saying her name was cut short by another wood block and both of his knees were shattered in one fell swoop.

She slapped him, leaving a pink handprint on his face and the ringing sound of a snare drum that lingered in the room for a second.

Again and again, the countertenor keeping up his breathtakingly long scream.

Eventually, the scream died out.