[Fic] Diary Entries 2/?
July 17th, 1945
“No Angleterre, you cannot see it and no, I will not tell you where I ‘ave hidden it,” I repeated for what must have been the twentieth time that morning.
The Englishman’s pleading face had quickly turned sour and hard again and he huffed turning away. I could have sworn I caught something about me being an ‘ungrateful frog’ or something similar to that. I didn’t tell him that I am actually very grateful; it would only worry him more and God knows we don’t need that on top of everything else as of late.
Yesterday’s entry was… Shocking, to me to say the least. I have re-read it a dozen times but I still can’t convince myself that I wrote it; oh yes, I remember it all well but to put it down on paper… to make a situation so blunt and to start off with my- death? I truely wonder if Arthur might have slipped something into my coffee to make my speech a little looser.
But it is written, and I dare not try and rip it out for fear Arthur would find it.
I suppose I should’ve started with the beginning, when Ludwig first took me away at the battle of Dunkirk. I could blame Angleterre or blame his boss but I don’t see the point of it. Yes, the British did leave me behind to surrender to the Germans but I do not blame them. It was my own decision not to join them on the boats, I could not leave my troops behind to surrender without me. I would never abandon my people. But, many of my people managed to escape with Angleterre and his troops, and for that I am grateful.
It took less than a month after our surrender at Dunkirk for Germany to accept our surrender and not more than a month after that- the Vichy Government was created under my new boss, Pétain. I lost a lot of respect for that man after that, the once great war hero now turned nothing more than a Nazi co-operator. He did, after all, - for lack of a better word - whore me out to protect what little freedom my people had left. Which, I might add, was taken by Germany not too long after the agreement was signed.
After being handled by the German military, my own new forming government, and back into Ludwig’s hands I was not pleased to say the least. The first few months of my occupation were- difficult, if I had to describe it in one word. I was constantly moved around, from occupied regions of my own country, to the German border, to Berlin itself.
I was beyond relieved to see they were not destroying my once proud cities- but that relief quickly faded when I started to see the large red, white, and black swastikas hanging from them. My own cities sickened me with how quickly they were conforming to the Reich.
I was slowly starting to feel the life drain out of the streets of my cities and out of my very veins. But I couldn’t give up yet; I couldn’t surrender myself to them. No matter the opinion certain other countries or people may have of me, I am a very proud man. I am proud of my nation, of my people, and I would rather suffer the consequences of rebelling than become a dog to anyone.
But a dog I did become.
/Francis’ writing seems to becoming less neat and careful than it normally is. Almost as if his hand is shaking. There’s a few water stains between the pages, sticking them together./
July 18th, 1945
I am tired of Angleterre, I am tired of this rehabilitation, and most of all I am tired of being sober any longer. So I won’t be. I managed to find Arthur’s stash of whiskey and he’s out right now doing Lord only knows what. He said something about food.
So here I am, sitting in a tiny cottage in some rural area of France writing in a diary and taking rather generous swigs of whiskey. I miss the brothel, really. I had managed to hide out there for a few months before Arthur found me and dragged me here for ‘help’. Like I need him.
Like I need anyone!
They abandon me when I need them most, leave me to ROT for four years in a stinking, moldy basement and then expect to come back and say ‘Oh I’m SORRY?’. I think I’m going to try to count all the times Arthur has said sorry already and take a shot… although I doubt there’s enough whiskey left in the bottle now.
But really, he abandons me at Dunkirk, full well knowing that the Nazis are going to capture me and what does he do? Nothing! Ludwig, Gilbert, and God knows who else had their way with me and I am just suppose to forget? I can hear the other nations right now - Arthur included probably -
‘He wanted it!’
‘He’s earned it for being a tease!’
‘What’s new? He’s always been a whore!’
But Arthur, Arthur he’s the worst of them all. He’s a spoiled little British brat. That’s what Arthur is. Nothing but. A damned spoiled naïve British gentleman. Oh yes, that’s Arthur. Conasse.
You know what he did today? He told me I was nothing but a spoiled brat. That I should suck it up and stop pitying myself when others have had a worse time than I have. That what has happened to me ‘wasn’t so bad’. But… But the thing that scares me-
What if he’s right? Am I just blowing this up…?
No. Fuck this journal. I should just burn it right now, go back to my Paris brothel and drown myself in wine and women. Then I won’t have to think about any of this, I can just forget again.
So… why isn’t the booze working this time?
/Today's entry stops here, though there is obviously more writing after -about two pages more-, but it is to smeared to be legible./