France's Daughter // Hetalia

Chapter Twenty-Six- Is Blood Sickly Sweet or Tart?

Charlotte (Charlie, Lottie)

2:56AM

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Blood drips down my mutilated thigh, and all I do is watch. I could apply pressure with a towel, I could sterilize it to prevent infection- Yet, I just watch as it stains the shower mat. It's satisfying, listening to the drip, watching it slide down my skin. 

I don't feel the pain anymore, just afterwards, when the cuts are rubbing against the fabric of my pants, all sore and raw. That's the part I dread.

Everyone left about four hours ago. I tried to bid them farewell, but they all left in such large clumps, it was hard to single anyone out. I didn't notice Arthur anywhere, I assumed he left earlier. Being in Papa's house must be hard for him, too. I don't understand why they won't just talk.

Haha, look at me. Stressing over Papa's romantic problems while my leg looks like ceviche. I grab the bandages from beneath the sink, and wrap it around my leg tightly. It helps with the pain, and prevents blood from staining my clothes. Ripping off the excess with my teeth, I use clips to secure the cloth. I've gotten good at first aid over the past year, given the circumstances... also because I fear Papa may do something to himself- something rash. I should know how to do CPR, at least. 

I look around, not bothering getting up from the bathroom floor. It's comforting here. A place where even Papa doesn't bother me. He assumes I'm doing "Girly things" when I'm in the bathroom for more than ten minutes. More than five, but less than ten, and he assumes I took a shit. 

I wonder what I should do tonight. I don't want to sleep. I've been having terrible dreams lately. Dreams of an old man, stroking my face and whispering sweetly into my ear. It sends shivers down my spine just thinking about it. 

I shoot up quickly, scrambling to my feet and skipping out the bathroom. I know what I should do! 

I look up and down the hallway, searching in vain for any sign of life. Papa hasn't come out of his room in months, why would he now? Still, I tread lightly down the stairs, careful not to step on the parts that squeak, and dig my key out from one of the coats hanging on the coat rack. 

"Au revoir", I purr, before sneaking out into the dark. 

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3:24AM

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"Mrs. Lola! Bonjour!", I knock ferociously on the glass doors, and laugh when she jumps in fright.

Her plump cheeks burst with color as she gives me a whole-hearted grin, tiptoeing over and unlocking the doors. 

"My, it's so late! What are you doing out at this hour, ma cherie?"

"I was craving your macarons", I smile, throwing myself down at the counter. 

The cafe used to be an old 60's themed bar before the 90's came in and trashed everything old-timey. Mrs. Lola still kept old, glass beer bottles lined up on the shelves behind the counter, though, as tribute to the olden days. If you go in the back, you can still find old posters advertising Coke and.. well.. Coke. 

Mrs. Lola quickly slips behind the counter, and pulls out a platter with her infamous macrons placed neatly in a sweet, sugary tower. My eyes twinkle as I take one from the top, popping it in my mouth effortlessly. She doesn't watch my reaction- she knows I love her baking- and instead leans against the glass, finishing up whatever paperwork she has sprawled out.