Okay so, as you've probably already guessed from the title, this is going to be bad. Really, bad. I apologise now for my bad writing and anything else but... hey, why not have a Hetalia Book? Hetalia is life :D
Oops! Ang larawang ito ay hindi sumusunod sa aming mga alituntunin sa nilalaman. Upang magpatuloy sa pag-publish, subukan itong alisin o mag-upload ng bago.
Doctor Adams sighed and opened a door to a room in the hospital, glaring at her report, hoping it would suddenly change. Inside, the form of Francis Bonnefoy, her latest clinent, could be seen, gently swinging his legs against the wheeled bed. He looked up as she entered.
"Is it..." he started.
"It's bad" she sighed again. "I'm sorry, normally it doesn't develop anywhere near as fast as your has but... it has."
"AIDS" he muttered. It was one of those words that went unspoken, one of those words you just didn't say, didn't want to talk about, something that maybe high schoolers laughed at. It sounded dirty, not humane almost, but it was the one word that described him. It hadn't been his fault, he'd been forced into it, into prostitution. There was no money, no food, no nothing, and he didn't want another beating like last time. Last time was just a little bit too far.
Adams nodded, swallowing the lump that had developed in her throat. "There is treatment, but its £20,000 and... well... no one these days just seems to have that amount of cash lying around." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, there's nothing left that we can do."
Francis nodded, his legs completely still now, hands gripping the rails so tightly, she was positive they were going to snap. "How long do I have left?"
She shrugged. "It's hard to tell really. Worst case scenario, a couple of months. At most a year, but nothing more. If I were to make a safe guess, I'd say around the four months line, but as I say, it's hard to tell."
He nodded and let go of the rail, jumping down off the bed. It almost hurt to touch the floor, anything in this clean environment. He was contaminating it all just by breathing its air.
"I'm sorry" she muttered, not really sure of what else to say. He waved her apology off and left, hands deep inside pockets. Maybe, if he could just get out soon enough, before he contaminated the entire place, it'd be alright.
Francis closed the hospital door behind him, got into his car and just sat there for a bit. Funny, when you're young, you image living to eighty, ninety. You want to live to a hundred years old, be that one who crosses the triple digit mark.
And he was leaving the world at nineteen, twenty.
He rather wanted it to be nineteen, get him out of the world as soon as possible, rid this pristine planet of him. Vermin has to be caught and killed and it was only a matter of time before another piece of vermin was washed down the plug hole. The sooner he was gone, the better it would be for everyone.
It had just been a test; see what it was like to have sex with a guy. It had been good, better than girls. And then he'd found out about the HIV, and then that'd gotten worse, medication didn't work and now, here he was with a year left to live, maximum.
Like he cared. Like anyone cared. The sooner he was gone, the better.
He bit his lip, turned the keys in the ignition and backed out of his parking space, prepared for the long, silent drive home, alone.
Francis could feel himself fading. Every step hurt more than the last, every short, sharp, wheezy breath hurt more than the last. He'd been back to the hospital a lot, and nothing had happened. And now, the moment he'd been waiting for was here, too soon. He didn't want it, didn't want to die. Maybe, he wasn't dying just yet. Maybe... maybe... maybe he should stop getting his hopes up. Death is death. It happens to all of us at some point and there's no going back after that, nothing you can do at all.
But what was death?
An eternal sleep? An afterlife? A reincarnation? A rebirth? An unexplored vortex to another dimension?
He struggled to catch his last breath and sat up straight in his armchair. If he was going to die, this was where he would die, his favourite chair, with a nice view out of the window, to the garden with the roses which never seemed to be trimmed, yet were always perfect. He loved roses. There was something about them, the love that they symbolised, that he thought was beautiful in everyway.
Smiling to himself, to the roses, he eased himself back into the chair and closed his eyes.
'I'm not dying in pain, I'll die slowly, peacefully...'
When he woke up, he was smaller, lots smaller than he had been. How tall had he been? No idea. Who had he been? No idea. How had he even got here? No idea. Maybe he had died and come back to life and... no, that was stupid. People don't come back to life a quarter their original height and even if they reincarnate, they don't just appear next to a rose bush aged what? Five?
He looked at the roses. They were beautiful, perfect. He plucked one off the bush and held it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. Beautiful.
France
He whipped round, hoping to catch the speaker. There was no one there. It was just him, just him talking. But why France? What was so good about France? It was just a country right? Where they made wine, and where they had the stupid mime people and... it was the country of love.
France
Actually, if this was a new life, it didn't sound so bad, being called France. Actually, it sounded perfect. He looked down at the rose in his hand.
And he would always carry the rose, to remember where he had woken up into this new world, where the roses blossomed, beautiful as always.
