DATE: ________

I don't care what the cover of this book says in fancy golden script, because it's lying. This is not a diary. This is a log about the ending of the world, because even if all my people die, someone can find this, years from now, and remember what idiots we all were, we Nation-people.

I dug this book out of the ruins of a building. I can't tell what it used to be; a house, maybe. I think this area was a neighborhood once, but you can never been sure any more.

Pages are ripped and burned, and I keep having to pause to find the next page that isn't destroyed. There's some other writing here, in another hand, loopy and hard to read.

This used to be someone's diary. This book that I'm using to record the ending of the world in used to belong to someone else.

When I have a moment, I pause, and flip through the pages with that other person's writing, and I wonder about this book's last owner. It belonged to a girl, I believe. I can't imagine any boy owning a pale purple book with "diary" written on the cover in fancy script. The handwriting is graceful and loopy, and on the few bits not entirely burned, I can make out entries about school, boys and friends.

Normal things. Human things.

Normality, humanity; they both are missing from the world now.

The world ended five months ago.

It didn't really end, because I'm still here, writing in this journal. If I'm alive, my people are alive, and I know other Nation-people like me are here still. Not as many as there once were; the earth took far too much of a beating.

No, not many Nation-people are left now. There is me, Germany. And there is Italy, both of them, too full of life to die, even now. Spain, although badly weakened, too hard-headed to give in, even now. China, because that man will live forever. Japan, because he's too stubborn to die. England, too determined to live. France, because he loves life more than anything else. Prussia, because he's too awesome to die. A few others live, although I haven't seen them.

England prays every day that America survived, France frets about Canada. But we have no way of crossing the Atlantic. All boats and planes were destroyed. We're stuck on this side of the world, searching for others who may have survived.

Romano refuses to leave Spain. The end of the world has shocked all the bitterness out of him, and he is quieter, almost kinder. Romano is always by Spain, one hand touching him in case he falls. He doesn't fight with Spain, doesn't irritate me.

I miss the way he was before the world ended. It's a silly thing to say, yes. But when Romano was grumpy and surly and refused to admit what he really felt, it meant that the world was still normal. That everything was fine. That I would have to suffer through another moronic world meeting, that I would be dragged out to lunch (pasta, of course) by Italy, that my brother would be passed out on the couch at home, beer bottles stacked on the table.

But world meetings no longer happen, Italy has lost his taste for pasta, and my brother can no longer bring himself to talk about how awesome he is.

Italy is even quieter then his brother, and he clings to me. He's sitting not far away right now, helping England dig out the body of a four-year-old girl. His lips are pressed too tightly together and his eyes are red from crying, but he is silent as he pulls her body out from under the wreckage.

I don't like this change in him. Italy cried before this, but never from real sadness. It was always from something else; fear, anger, happiness, but never sadness.

The four-year-old girl was badly burned, and the flesh is peeling away from her face. Her eyes, brown as chocolate, are unseeing. We have all seen thousands of bodies since that day, but this one is truly awful. My throat burns from bile, and even England turns away, but Italy just brushes the rubble off her body and smooths down her choppy hair before lifting her gently into his arms.

We are burying as many bodies as we can in a field not far from here, with a rock to mark the head of each one. There are thousands of rocks in that field now, and we are not finished with this city yet.

Italy is walking towards me now, still holding the girl's body to his chest.

"I knew this child," he says, and his voice is strained. I'm still writing, and he doesn't wait for me to respond before he continues, speaking slowly so I can copy every word down.

"Her name is Felicita. It means happiness, you know. I thought it was funny, the first time I met her, because her name sounded like mine. Feliciano. Felicita. Her mother worked for my boss, and Felicita would come in with her every once in a while to say hi to me. She was funny, sweet, and I thought... I had thought she would be a beautiful lady later on."

He sighs heavily, and turns away, walking back towards England. I'm still copying down what he said, and I know it makes me seem rude, but this must be done. Something must remind people about this time, of our losses and miseries. Someone has to remember a four-year-old girl named Felicita who died before she could ever really live.

Someone has to remember.

The world ended five months ago because of our arrogance. Even now, I don't know precisely how it all started, but guns and bombs and death and hatred were involved, and my country's streets were awash in blood. Bombs are bigger, badder in this age, or at least they were. No one has any love for bombs now.

This journal will be handed to the other Nations still living, so they may fill in their piece. We will die eventually, we Nation-people, and what we must say must be said now. Warnings must be left, and blessings given.

To the future generations who might chance upon this book, here is my warning: The world can fall out from under you in less then a moment, and everything you care about can fall apart in front of your eyes.

My blessing: Remember us; us Nations who might fade. Remember Italy, Prussia, Germany, Spain, England, France, China, Japan and the others. Learn from these old fools, and do not follow in our footsteps.

What I must say: I'm sorry for everything I, as a Nation, have done, and I'm sorry for everything I, as a human, have not. There are things I wish I could say to Italy that never find form, thanks I wish to give my brother that dies on my tongue. There are things I wish I could undo, and things I wish I could start, but it's too late for that now.

Bodies must be buried, the survivors must be fed. My entry is done, and this journal, this log, will be passed on for another's blessing, warning, words.

There is nothing left that I must say.



Author's Note

It's a lot like some of my other stuff; but I might add on to this, if enough people say they like it.

Who's entry should be next, people? France, England, Prussia or Spain?