Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia nor any of it's characters and what not.
A/N: Russia was surprisingly easy to write about, in a way. Some parts of his personality is similar to mine so I guess that's why..? Dunno. I wrote this down as a companion to the poem I just made recently. I didn't post it here but I posted it in my LJ account. If you're interested to read it, just PM me your email and I'll send you the link because FF is a b*$# about links for some reason I don't really get.
Ivan Braginsky or Russia, as he is commonly known, stood in an old house with a couple of sunflowers in his right hand. His footsteps heavy, weary emotionally and physically, the chaos of the world making him more wise and cold. As he opened the door slowly, he got inside, careful of his steps because of the rotten wood on the floor. He stops in a particular spot and gently put down the sunflowers with care. There are blood splattered there decades ago, still etched in the wood.
He let a single tear flow down his cheek, not even bothering to wipe it away. He gingerly touched the dried spots of blood with his gloved hand with a sense of longing and regret.
Sometimes, he wondered, what would've happen if those horrible things hadn't come, would that make a difference? Would that change everything? He doesn't know. But he reckons that it wouldn't matter anyway, because what's done is done. There's nothing else to do except to move forward.
He slowly stood up and walk towards the door but before he got out, he took one last look at the whole place, a reminder of his painful past, and just as silent as he entered, he walked away in the same manner.
He put both his hands down his pockets in his pants and let the cool, soft breeze of the wind go past him. He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes, thinking that, for a moment, he is in a field of sunflowers and at peace. There's no trace of his bloody and tragic past in his shadows, no haunting of the dead to follow him wherever he go, and no memories of the people dear to him dying in his hands, their blood forever tainting the very hands in his being, no regret and guilt to hound him for the rest of his almost immortal life.
But no, it's not his reality. It's not his truth, no matter how much he'd wish for it to be. So he opens his eyes slowly, and walked on. Walking and walking without turning back, because if he did, he's afraid of what he'll see, he's afraid of facing it again and again and again. So he moves forward, as a way to escape, as a way to accept those horrors, as a way… to be free of them.
Although he is painfully aware that he can't go on running away forever, he has to face them again someday, but for now, all he could do is move forward and to hope for a new tomorrow and maybe, to hope for something better than yesterday had brought him before.