Hetalia Deaths

Basch Zwingli (Switzerland)

This theory is made by TheLonelySilence

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The bridge was tall. Basch was sure if he fell, he would snap his neck once he hit the water.

Just what he wanted.

Most people saw Basch as a polite, clever young man, one with a bright future in front of him.

That used to be how he thought of himself too, until he entered 7th grade.

He was one of the lucky ones, one of the few kids who would be able to go to Gymnasium. The class for the smartest kids. The only class which allowed you to go to University.

Which meant they had to fight to keep their places. One wrong grade, one three or two and you were out. Everyone in his class were expected to keep up their grades, to get perfect marks all the time. His teachers expected it and his parents expected it.

Four wasn’t acceptable.

Five wasn’t acceptable.

Five and a half could be debated, but he knew that his parents only wanted sixes.

The highest mark.

And he had failed that.

Basch stared at the End-Semester report card in his hand. Forcing himself to flip it open onto the page with the end marks, his lip curled in anger and disgust.

There next to ‘Music’ was his grade. A big fat three. Basch gave out an enraged yell and ripped the paper he was holding into pieces.

He stared at the paper confetti, before throwing it angrily into the abyss below.

Tears stung his eyes. He didn’t bother wiping them away, instead only allowing them to fall freely down his face.

He didn’t want to die.

But he had to.

He couldn’t live with himself otherwise.

He wouldn’t be able to go to university and study the subject he wanted. Instead he would be forced to find an apprenticeship for him to learn, and then take over for the rest of his life. It wasn’t what he wanted.

Basch didn’t want to be a builder, a post man, or a cashier.

Neither did his parents.

Just thinking about them made him clench his fists. They always wanted him to do better. To get better grades, to concentrate better, to be the best of the best.

“No Basch, you can play later, now study your maths homework. Gärn hüt no.”

(=’Preferably today’ (Swiss German))

“Basch, come home this instant. How dare you go play outside when we told you to do your spelling!”

“Basch, what the hell is this? Is this a four? Do you want to work at the Migros your entire life, selling bread to people far better off than you? We need to crank up the studying time. No more TV junger Mann.”

“Basch! This is how you repay your father and I? After everything we’ve done for you?”

“Shut UP!” Basch yelled furiously, his tears falling faster than ever. He hated them. He hated them with all his heart. The constant pressure. He threw off his backpack, along with the letter he had written.

He just couldn’t do it anymore.

He was tired of all of it.

He was… tired.

So tired.

With that realization, he… couldn’t feel the pressure anymore. He felt numb. Slightly cold, but numb.

“I’m tired.” He whispered, going to sit on the ledge.

“I just want to sleep. And never wake up.”

Basch stared down, watching as the small droplets fell down. He didn’t bother to wipe his tears away. He was too tired. Suddenly he lifted his head up toward the heavens, and stared at the dark sky. A few stars glittered above him, though most of them were covered by the bright orange lights of the streets.

He felt peaceful.

And with a quick push of his legs, he threw himself off of the Kirchenfeld Brücke and he plummeted down into the Aare.

His neck snapped the moment he came in contact with the water.

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The grass was soft and he was warm despite the slight breeze that ruffled his hair and the small white flowers growing all over the meadow. The sky was a deep black, with billions of tiny stars glimmering above the sleeping boy.

He was at peace.