Hetalia Deaths

Berwald Oxenstiernia (Sweden) Theory 2

All of the characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya and the theory was written by fanfiction's InferoxPhoenix, so credit for this sad, but wonderful, theory must be given to them.

Berwald Oxenstiernia was a bullying victim, who drowned himself. This explains his quiet and 'scary' behavior.

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Where did that mantra come from, anyway? The ones about sticks and stones and words. You know, the ones that teachers would relentlessly drill into your head until it was practically etched on the inside of your skull? Who thought to write that down? Because it's shit, really it is.

Berwald had never exactly been good with his words. Whenever he tried to speak, they came out strangely, or in the wrong tone. Over years of embarrassing social encounters, dating back to his first years of primary school, he had learned that not speaking was where his best interests lie. However, most everyone else was not like him. To others, language could be taken and used as a sharply honed tool for anyone with a properly working tongue.

That had been his problem for all of these years; everyone else could use their words and he couldn't. Although, that was only part of the problem. It's like if you give two capable people a gun, they could either use it to shoot down a market, or kill the wolf eating all of your neighbor's sheep. For a long time, he had encountered the former type of people.

On his very first day of school, when he was short enough to fit underneath a doorknob, was his earliest recollection of it. Underneath a clouded September sky, he had sat on a picnic table next to the swings, gently pulling out a carefully stowed box his mother had put inside of his bag that morning. He had just wanted to eat in peace- the large amount of buzzing pre-schoolers had begun to overwhelm him.

He couldn't even remember why the small group of three came over. He just remembered that they all had unkempt near-white hair that stuck up at three hundred different angles. One of them was wearing a bright red t-shirt. He couldn't remember what the insults even where, but he could recall, clear as day, the one in the red shirt grabbing the glasses off of the bridge of his nose and crushing them underfoot.

He had come home on the verge of tears, blind eyes made worse by the beginnings of tears. His mother had knelt down and hugged him, her arms warm and inviting.

"Don't worry about those boys," She had said. "They're just trying to get you upset. Just ignore them,"

He had nodded into her sweater, and he went back the next day fully prepared to not even give them another look- not that he could even distinguish them from the crowd of child-shaped amoebas. Alas, the ego of a young child isn't meant for that sort of thing. Every day turned out the same as the last, but he was far more protective of his glasses after the first time.

At home every day, his mother would repeat the same thing, "Just ignore them, Berwald. They'll grow out of it eventually. Go and make some other friends!"

But, the thing was, they never really grew out of it. None of them ever did.

So, now, he was quiet, and reserved. The four-eyed monster, as he had been dubbed when he was little, always sat alone, and rarely spoke. It was a quiet existence, one he didn't necessarily mind, and could have been rather content with if it weren't for the raucous disruptions that came from the mouths of gel-haired peers.

His days were always the same. At 6:15, his alarm went off, he got dressed, neglected breakfast, and embarked on the mile walk to school. After that, it was a mind-numbing seven hours of quiet jabs and constant streams of over-repeated insults. At this point, he had heard all of them so many times, his mind barely registered them half of the time. But, the truth was, they still hurt, no matter how much he heard them.