Cold damp air swirled through the cracked kitchen window, slithering through the dark room and curling around Russia’s bare arms. He shivered at how the cold air licked his skin and lumbered silently to the hushed living room, grabbing a plaid blanket off the couch and pulled it loosely over his frame. Bitter smoke still curled towards the ceiling in the kitchen and Russia sighed, walking back into the other room to try and clear more of the smoke away. It wasn’t easy to cook when the mind was scattered: fractured and dangling like a shattered mirror. He had been heating up olive oil and onions in a pan and had forgotten them. They had turned to charcoal and the kitchen was still hazy from the smoky residue. Russia opened another window, ignoring the bitter clammy morning air that seeped through the house.
The morning way grey and fog blanketed the ground outside. He leaned against the counter, feeling the corner of the counter cut into his hand as he pressed against it. Ceramic scraped loudly as he pulled a half finished mug of tea towards himself and stared out at the silent grey land. There was always the fear when a nation died that he wouldn’t come back. His pale fingers were curled around a faded Mickey Mouse mug and the small cartoon smiled brightly up at him. Russia turned the grinning mouse away, looking to the blank backside of the cold mug as he swirled the dregs of his cold tea absentmindedly. It was hard to kill a nation before it was their time, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. France and England had both admitted they hadn’t realized it was Rome’s time before the elder nation had just disappeared. His kind did not usually die on the battlefield. It was normally an accident like getting kicked by a horse or tripping down a hill. But there was something else that could happen to nations when they died. They could come back, but they would not know who anyone was. Like wiping a slate clean or rebooting a computer, sometimes nations came back as a completely new person.
It felt like frozen barbed wire had wrapped around his heart as Russia thought of the possibility that America could wake up and not know who he was. There were rumors that it had happened to Germany when he was younger and Peru claimed that Argentina had suffered from it as well. Russia sighed, pouring out the remnants of his tea before staring at the ceiling above him. Outside the window a bird chirped merrily, and Russia frowned. With a sigh, he fixed the scratchy plaid blanket around him before slowly walking upstairs and back to his vigilant post. Russia’s throat felt tight and scratchy. His eyes watered slightly as he passed the open window. It was probably just spring pollen.
----
When America woke up, it was to the sound of a muted TV playing downstairs and the gritty sound of a car buzzing past the house. America sighed, taking in a quiet breath and turned his head into his pillow. God, he felt like shit. His fingers groped about for the nightstand beside his bed in search for his phone. He felt hollow, like someone had carved his rib cage apart to replace all his organs with hot simmering air. America moaned when his hand fell to the side of the bed with a loud thump after continuously hitting air instead of falling on the wooden nightstand by the side of his bed. What the hell had he done last night? It felt like having the flu, being hit by a truck, and bled out like a hanging piece of meat. It felt like…
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Here and Now 73
(Anonymous) 2012-04-16 09:21 pm (UTC)(link)Cold damp air swirled through the cracked kitchen window, slithering through the dark room and curling around Russia’s bare arms. He shivered at how the cold air licked his skin and lumbered silently to the hushed living room, grabbing a plaid blanket off the couch and pulled it loosely over his frame. Bitter smoke still curled towards the ceiling in the kitchen and Russia sighed, walking back into the other room to try and clear more of the smoke away. It wasn’t easy to cook when the mind was scattered: fractured and dangling like a shattered mirror. He had been heating up olive oil and onions in a pan and had forgotten them. They had turned to charcoal and the kitchen was still hazy from the smoky residue. Russia opened another window, ignoring the bitter clammy morning air that seeped through the house.
The morning way grey and fog blanketed the ground outside. He leaned against the counter, feeling the corner of the counter cut into his hand as he pressed against it. Ceramic scraped loudly as he pulled a half finished mug of tea towards himself and stared out at the silent grey land. There was always the fear when a nation died that he wouldn’t come back. His pale fingers were curled around a faded Mickey Mouse mug and the small cartoon smiled brightly up at him. Russia turned the grinning mouse away, looking to the blank backside of the cold mug as he swirled the dregs of his cold tea absentmindedly. It was hard to kill a nation before it was their time, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. France and England had both admitted they hadn’t realized it was Rome’s time before the elder nation had just disappeared. His kind did not usually die on the battlefield. It was normally an accident like getting kicked by a horse or tripping down a hill. But there was something else that could happen to nations when they died. They could come back, but they would not know who anyone was. Like wiping a slate clean or rebooting a computer, sometimes nations came back as a completely new person.
It felt like frozen barbed wire had wrapped around his heart as Russia thought of the possibility that America could wake up and not know who he was. There were rumors that it had happened to Germany when he was younger and Peru claimed that Argentina had suffered from it as well. Russia sighed, pouring out the remnants of his tea before staring at the ceiling above him. Outside the window a bird chirped merrily, and Russia frowned. With a sigh, he fixed the scratchy plaid blanket around him before slowly walking upstairs and back to his vigilant post. Russia’s throat felt tight and scratchy. His eyes watered slightly as he passed the open window. It was probably just spring pollen.
When America woke up, it was to the sound of a muted TV playing downstairs and the gritty sound of a car buzzing past the house. America sighed, taking in a quiet breath and turned his head into his pillow. God, he felt like shit. His fingers groped about for the nightstand beside his bed in search for his phone. He felt hollow, like someone had carved his rib cage apart to replace all his organs with hot simmering air. America moaned when his hand fell to the side of the bed with a loud thump after continuously hitting air instead of falling on the wooden nightstand by the side of his bed. What the hell had he done last night? It felt like having the flu, being hit by a truck, and bled out like a hanging piece of meat. It felt like…