Russia:
"Alfred." …Nothing. "Mr. Jones." …Still nothing.
"Amerika." He flinched.
"Amerika. It's time. Get up."
Sky blue eyes lulled open drunkenly, rolling down from deep in his skull. Dark pupils turned and faced me unfocusedly. His eyes shone in comparison to the small, dark room. They were beautiful; they always had been, but now their crystal sharpness which glimmered once with life and passion, was obscured by a distant haze.
"Amerika. Come. Come and play with me, da?" He didn't move –didn't blink. He just stared at me with his vacant eyes which saw nothing.
"Kolkolkolkol," I laughed, grabbing his ankles and dragging him from his cell. His body scraped roughly against the cold, rock floor as he was dragged down the hall and into the room at the end. I pulled him in behind me and with a heave, threw him roughly across the room and turned to lock the door. Amerika was so light now, so thin and fragile. He flew from my hands and I heard his bones thump softly against the unforgiving stone wall. He fell to the ground, slumped over and heaving slightly, but still staring vacantly at the ground. I hated that. I'd make him look at me again.
I pulled my pipe out from my jacket and held it firmly in my hand. It was cold, and as I ran it against Amerika's bare arm, he shivered reflexively. I felt the corners of my mouth tilt upward, and I let the pipe fall to the ground. I drug it toward me with a screeecchhh and then it was in the air, falling to connect brutally with his shin.
He didn't cry out in pain… no, he hadn't done that in years. His beautiful features contorted in pain and he shuddered, releasing his breath shakily. His shin was broken. It lay now, twisted into a grotesque angle, quickly swelling with sickening shades of an unhealthy purple. His skin was so pale against the swelling and for a moment, I missed seeing bruises on his beautiful sun kissed skin. He was sallow now, with dark circles under his eyes and cheekbones. The only thing he would consume was the vodka I would leave in his cells some nights in hopes of forcing him to sleep. It'd be a waste of time if he died after all of this… At least… that's what I'd tell myself.
America:
I used to count each day, meticulously. I'd force myself to remember everything I failed to do, everyone I'd failed to save, and when. I don't know any more. I can't tell when I'm awake or asleep. It's all just the same nightmares. All I can see is their faces. All I can hear are their screams and God, oh God, it hurts. It could have been years since then, decades even. I can't tell anymore. He'll drag me into my cell, bloodied and battered and leave me there with a couple bottles of vodka, and before I know it, he's back again. I only know that time has passed since my wounds have healed. He always waits for me to heal before he tortures me again.
What does he want from me? I thought he would be happy with the world falling apart around him. I know he's always hated us …the way he'd stare at us with his creepy fake smile plastered on his face. I'd swear he'd wanted this all along. But instead of leaving me there to die like I deserved, he dragged me here and forces me to live. He tortures me and brutalizes me, but for some sick reason he wants me to live.
Russia:
I grabbed his shoulder from where he lay on the ground and picked him up so he could balance on my shoulder. He hung against me limply, slumped over as dead weight on his broken legs and leaving trails of blood on my coat. I shoved him into his cell where he fell abruptly, bones bending at right angles like a puppet falling to the ground after the puppeteer drops his strings. I watch as more blood gushes out of his open wounds onto the already bloodstained floor of his cell and after grabbing a couple bottles of vodka bottles from down the hall and setting them by the door, I close it and lock them together inside. I turned and left them, then. America was a nation, he was strong and he would heal completely from his injuries in a week's time. I'll come back then, and we'll do this all again.
Narrator:
Russia walked up the creaky wooden stairs up into his back hallway and carefully shut and locked the reinforced titanium basement door behind him. He slowly staggered from his back hallway into his living room where he started to pour himself a large glass of vodka and then reconsidered, carrying to bottle with him to his leather armchair. His massive frame fell into the chair with exhaustion and the old chair creaked in mild protest. Nudging his boots off with his toes, he stretched his feet, covered only in threadbare socks toward the warmth of his fireplace.
Russia's house had always been grand and beautiful, ever since he could remember. Once, it was a palace where the greatest of royalty lived, but it was mighty still today, if a little worn and forgotten. The house was much like Russia himself. That was probably why he took such pride in it. Both were tall, well-built, and very capable of standing through the ages against the frigid climate and brutal winds. Both Russia and his house had lived through the glory of a noble life and the horrors of abandonment and starvation. They had survived many horrors together and the crisis that had broken America was only the latest of many between them. It wasn't difficult for Russia to survive against the attacks. He wasn't a target. Russia's time had passed long ago, and now he was all but forgotten by all but his closest allies and fiercest enemies. The brutality which had crippled the western world had no interest in the effort it would take to break Russia. Russia was strengthened by horrors much greater than nations even twice his age had ever seen. His heart had long since become hard and cold, frozen like the wasteland in which he suffered. He stared into the fire, remembering nostalgically places and people that time had long ago forgotten, and swigged his alcohol hungrily until his eyes became heavy and he drifted into sleep.
SLAM! SLAM! I could hear the German armies fighting to break down the door. I was young, in my mid to late teens and I was curled up under a table on the third floor. SLAM! I can't breathe. God, God, please. SLAM! Please don't let them in. Don't let them take me. SLAM! I heard the door downstairs shudder from the impacts. SHUDDERSLAM SHUDDER. I can't face them yet. I never would have expected them at my doorstep so soon.
CRACKSHUDDER I couldn't breathe anymore. CRASHthumpthumpthumpthump The footsteps were heavy, but measured. Creeaaakk The door to the room I was hiding in opened slowly and he stepped into the room. From under the table I could only see his well-shined boots and the pant legs of his military uniform. He leaned down slowly, leering at me, cold blue eyes and oiled blonde hair. He smiled revealing the sharp white teeth of a predator. His eyes met mine.
"Heil, Ivan," he greeted me. Everything turned to darkness.
Russia:
I awoke with a start, cold and wet with sweat. My fire had long since died to embers and I no longer had the Baltics here to refresh it as I slept. I stood on shaky feet and slid my bloodstained jacket off, hanging it on the edge of my chair. My knees stretched with a crack and I left my living room seeking a shower to clear my head. Finding a towel hanging in the bathroom from the other day, I turned the water on high to the warmest setting and stripped as I waited for it to heat. In a couple minutes, the old pipes managed to heat the water to a searing temperature and I stepped in, breathing heavily as the water burned sensitive, untouched skin. Steam filled the air and my lungs felt warm and wet, almost heavy and pneumatic in the extreme conditions. My skin flushed an angry red wherever the water ran across it and my head was cleared by the Hellish warmth. I turned the knob on the wall and cooled the water with a sigh. The Nazis were dead. Germany was near death. They were the least of my concerns now.
I thought about America lying in his cell, broken and healing slowly without his consent. Even in the warmth of my shower I shudder thinking of what his dreams must be like. I remember the horrors. I remember the agony I felt as the hero Lenin slaughtered masses of my people, …the tearing I felt inside when Stalin took power behind him and the years without sleep as I sat back, feeling each and every one of my people he killed dying inside of me. It's different for America; it always is, but it's also much of the same. Years, even decades, that I cannot remember now that they have passed. Communist Russia… An American hero who has to watch, unable to save those he had sworn to protect…. Yes.. it's always much of the same.
