Letter to the person I hate the most
I just…I have a lot to say to you. I hate you. I hate you to the point I want to vomit every time I look at you. In fact I don’t ever want to look at you. I just want to rip out my eyes at the sight of you. No, I would actually much prefer you get your eyes ripped out. I wish I owned a bird so I could train it to peck your eyes out.
You’re definitely one of those people who doesn’t deserve to live. I wish someone would rip off your arms and legs and rape you as you wallow in a pool of your own blood. Then I would hire a necromancer to wake you up and then I would hire a scientist to put you back together so it could happen all over again.
Or I would hang you and cut you all over your body and stand underneath you and dance in a pool of your blood.
I would tie steaks to you and throw you in a lion’s den.
I would shoot out your kneecaps and listen to your screams of agony and laugh.
The pain you caused me will never be expressed in words. There will never be enough words in any language to express the pain you caused me and my loved ones.
Death is too good for you. Death is too swift of a punishment for you. You deserve to be locked up and chained to a wall, surrounded by the stench of your own filth, starving and crying out for help while knowing no one is there. Then I’ll come at you and have you beg for me not to hurt you even more. I would slice you and dice you as you stand there, helpless and pathetic like the dog you are.
You are the scum of the earth. You are the scum of the universe.
And when you finally do die your soul will forever wander. Heaven will never take you and Hell can never compare to the torture I would do to you. You will wander alone in an endless limbo of torture and pain and misery for all the people you have hurt.
And for some reason France always spends time with you! You’re so happy and part of a nice little trio of friends. I see Spain’s smiling face and I get so sick. Then France will actually stay with you for long periods of time and then dare to go back home to-
You know, I should not be angry with France. He knows not what he does or who he associates himself with. My anger is not directed at him. Only you, El Dorado.
Why, El Dorado? Why? Why did you kill us? Why did you make us suffer?
Did we do something to upset you? Did we make you so angry that you felt the need to end our lives? Or were you just greedy and craving power?
It matters not. There is no excuse for the crimes, the sins, you have committed, El Dorado. I will never forgive you.
I will forever hate you and there is nothing you can do to change that.
France lay in China’s bed, waiting for him to join him. That letter he wrote earlier was still running through his mind like mad. He could only remember a few times he had been so incredibly angry, but the things described in that letter were far beyond any punishment he would ever want to deliver. He had no idea where that anger came from and he honestly didn’t have much of an idea who he was mad at.
Spain had been mentioned in the letter, but there was no way he would be so angry at Spain. It only last week they were out drinking together with Prussia. No arguments occurred. It was just another normal, fun, silly night with friends. He was in no way upset with Spain.
So…El Dorado? How could he be mad at someone he’s never even met? How would he know the name of someone he’s never even met? The entire letter made no sense and yet he had been the one to write it.
France immediately turned onto his back and looked over to see China staring at him. He instantly put a smile on and beckoned for China to join him, however he just crossed his arms and stared at his husband.
“What’s the matter?”
China quirked an eyebrow at him, never take his eyes off of him. “You were clutching that blanket like a child who had a nightmare. You didn’t hear me call you when I walked back into the room. And I’m afraid porcelain dolls have a more realistic smile than you do right now. Tell me what’s wrong. What are you thinking about?”
The plastic smile France wore instantly fell. He should have known there was no getting around China. They continued their staring contest for a moment longer before France finally gave in. As he stood and walked towards the opposite side of the room, China settled himself in the bed, watching him all the while. Neither said a word as France made his way back to him and handed him a folded sheet of paper.
“What is this?”
“A letter. I…I wrote that today.”
France sat back on the bed and watched China’s face as he read. His expression never changed, though he didn’t expect it to. Even if something did phase China he was never one to show it until he reached his breaking point. Eventually China put down the letter, staring off into the distance.
“I…I don’t understand this letter at all. That is not me, mon Chine.”
“So…you’re beginning to write letters too then.”
The confusion etched on France’s face was unmistakable. China finally looked over at him, eyes filled with worry, concern, and nervousness.
He slowly took one of his journals from the desk next to his bed and opened to a page. He handed the journal to France, silently asking him to read the contents. It was a letter, a strange and mysterious letter.
“We have a lot to talk about, France.”