A LATE birthday present for our dearest Russia. Stay sane Russia-dearest!
Silence is everywhere. The echo of Estonia falling to the ground, his glasses broken, faded long ago. The largest of all of you, Russia himself, has his trademark pipe lifted above his head, a monstrous sneer on his face. Stop this.
(Make him stop it ...please...)
You must stop this.
You knew the real Russia. You know the sweet, caring man beneath that grin, beneath the threats and the rough, bloodied hands. This man... (he doesn't deserve to be called a man) he isn't Russia, is he? He isn't. He is a beast. A wild beast to be dealt with appropriately.
(I miss him.)
I know. But he isn't there. Try and find him, Liet. Go try. He is a monster, through and through.
(I see a big happy face. I see a boy running to hug me, and he says he doesn't want to let go, that he loves me too much.) Does he love you now? (He's in there. In there somewhere is that same boy. Look at his face. Look into his eyes.)
"Russia!"
He stops. His eyes turn slowly to you, the madness burning the pupils into slits with their intensity. (Do you see him in there? I remember, he always used to say 'Love you,' like it was so simple. And I would say 'love you,' as well.) Ask him. Let him answer you with a swift beating.
"Yes... ? Do you have something to add?" He's advancing. His pipe is at the ready. He's getting closer, Liet, closer. His steps are making your stomach churn, scream, you want to hide. Go hide! You're standing. You wrap your arms around him, and you feel him stop, confused, frozen.
You look into his eyes. A faint glimmer is there, oh so faint. It's weakened, struggling, but it's there. After so many years, it's still there. (He is in there.) You smile, hug him tightly, and press your head against that broad chest, where through the layers of clothing, you hear a tender heart beating.
"Love you, Russia."
"... Love you, Liet."