Hetalia x Reader (shorts, bonuses, scenarios and previews)

Helpless (Yandere!America)

Tied to Scorned (click the external link)

___

"When I think of my wife, I always think of her head. I picture cracking her lovely skull, unspooling her brain, trying to get answers. The primal questions of a marriage: What are you thinking? How are you feeling? What have we done to each other?" — Nick Dunne, opening narration, Gone Girl

(NOTE: If you have read the book or watched the film, put a spoiler alert before a potentially dangerous comment. ^^)

___

Alfred

When I first met my wife, I was thirteen and she looked to be five years older. I remember everything like it happened yesterday.

It was a few minutes past ten o'clock, at a 7-Eleven two blocks from my father's house. I remember my heart stopping when she caught me red-handed, two Sneakers being shoved in my loose, adult man's pants. I remember blushing when my stomach growled from two days with nothing decent to eat. She said nothing as she took the chocolate bars from me, I almost cried when she grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the cashier. But she did the opposite of what I expected. She bought me my Sneakers, a slushie ("Raspberry or Cola?" She asked. I nervously said "Cola"), and a hot dog.

I remember asking her for her name. She merely laughed and patted my head. I told her mine and asked again. Humoring me with a sigh, she told me, then she left.

I remember regretting how I didn't get to thank her for the food and the Lincoln she left in the plastic bag. I remember coming home happy and smiling that night, the smell of booze didn't affect me anymore and I ignored my father's loud snores from his bedroom. I snuggled with our dog Lemon Drop on the couch, trying to relive the memory of that girl. I was a kid whose mother walked out on him when he was born, whose father was a train wreck, whose older brother abandoned for New York. I came from a family of bad decisions and bad luck; I was heading for the same road as my father. I thought that I've lost hope years ago.

But as I lay on my back and stared at our dotted ceiling, seeing them as the stars I used to pretend they were, my chest swelled with warmth. I remember making a promise to live again, but not for me. And as crazy as it was, I remember swearing to myself, I'm going to marry that girl.

I stopped skipping school and soon found a knack in mathematics and social studies. Unfortunately, around the same time, my alcoholic, abusive father had been dropped out of work. In the end I simply felt sorry for him. But I still needed money and he was useless. There were few people who would hire a kid, especially one who came from the poor side of town, but I had a distant uncle who owned a farm and needed an extra pair of hands. I've always been good with animals, and I was a fast learner, so I fed the pigs and hens and horses, sheared sheep, milked cows, and cleaned their pens. Uncle paid me 11 bucks an hour. It wasn't much, but I stopped eating two meals and cut down on the snacks so I managed. It wasn't an easy life.

Allen Johnson, local jerk and entitled rich kid once forced me to drink from a canal. I was a head shorter than he was and a lot less muscular.

"Fucker" I muttered.

I didn't realize I said it out loud until I was folding, trying to keep his kicks from hitting my face and torso. A woman on a jog found me and called 911. I missed three days of school. I only received two visitors, my English teacher Mrs. Zbornak and my math teacher Mr. Frasier. I think they're both dead now.

I got bullied, shunned and isolated by my peers and I came home late at night with a body on the verge of collapse. There were times when I just wanted to quit; I almost did actually. But then Allen did something stupid. Something he would regret in the future.