What Remains Unspoken

Chapter 7: A Shell of a Woman

     Vietnam woke up with a newfound anger, also with a new motive. He had many plans and things he needed to do, but this one is the most important of all. He needed to find out what he had done to France, and he wouldn't talk to Northern unless he had to. He slipped out off the couch, looking around before he slid into the kitchen and got himself some food. As Vietnam ate, he began thinking of things he kept a secret and reasons he kept them a secret. Embarrassing things, horrible things. He later came out to France about what China had did, but she's the only person he would be willing to tell, and he meant that. 

What about what Papa would do to me? 

     Vietnam remembered those days far too well. Vividly, even. He remembered how he'd drink, the distant, milky look in his eyes as he'd hit him. He remembered how enraged his father would get when he was home, and how quick-tempered his brother was when he wasn't home. He never did remember his mother, his brother always waved him off, telling him things like,

"Bah bạn không cần biết! Nó không liên quan đến bạn."

"Bah, you don't need to know! It doesn't deal with you anyways."

     Vietnam never even thought to ask his father. He feared he'd get emotional and angry like he always did when you asked him something about his past. 

     He let out an exhale, then thought to himself, 

     Maybe he reminds her of someone who used to use her in a mean way. 

     Though Vietnam didn't like to think about things happening, especially bad things, to the person who had portrayed the most care for him, he knew he had to. He felt like he was repaying her in a way. He didn't know how, he didn't think it'd hurt her, so he tried to. Besides, it maybe could be something the two of them could relate with someday. He sat down on the couch, nibbling on a piece of bread as he watched the guest bedroom door creak open. Northern France crept out of the room, seemingly fully energized as hesitantly, he approached Vietnam. Vietnam could read a regretful look on his face, and he made sure to keep his glare fixated on the wandering eyes of him.

"Tell me,"

     Vietnam croaked, clearing his throat. He hardly ever talked, so when he did his throat was so dry to the point where his words rasped. It had always made France giggle when he did that. Northern France looked at him, blinking and batting his eyelashes as he tilted his head. Vietnam's heart steadied as the French man approached him even more. He could have sworn he saw a glisten of remorse when he sat down beside him, looking at him. Awaiting an answer.

"What did you do to your sister? France?"

     Vietnam queried, narrowing his eyes at him. He noticed that Northern could barely upkeep simple eye contact. Vietnam remembered that he did the same thing as a kid, especially when his father and brother made him think he had done something bad. Northern France subtly reminded him of a distant, bigger version of himself. Except he knew he hadn't done anything as a kid that he would carry onto adulthood. 

"N-no? Nothing?"

     The French man seemed to babble out, his eyes now heavily fixated towards the ground. Derived, guilty, and seemingly paranoid. Vietnam knew something was wrong. He had read books that showed signs of lying, he had read many books as a child. And even now, if he could get his hands on one. Tentatively, he slowly stood up and walked to the kitchen. There he grabbed a knife.

"Okay. I'll get you to talk one way or another."