Click.
Ivan was very lonely and he knew why.
Click.
Ivan was fairly sure it had started two weeks before when he saw his Lithuania happily spending time with Poland. It started when he saw Latvia smiling with Sealand and Estonia working contently on whatever he did.
Click.
Ivan knew it started when China started hanging out more with South Korea, when America and England started sharing "those" kind of looks, when Canada started laughing with France. He knew it started when his beloved older sister Ukraine started spending time away from him and even Belarus started staying out late. Austria and Hungary, Prussia and Switzerland, Liechenstein, Cuba, Ireland, Japan, Greece, Turkey, Sweden, Finland, the Italies, Spain, and Germany everyone and everything.
Click.
Ivan was horribly lonely and it had started when he'd become the new Canada; everyone was happy together with others and he had no one. No one. He had no one to hold him, to love him, to protect him from himself and General Winter; he was all alone. That made his unstable personality tip a little, just a little, just a bit, and so there he was, there he'd be, counting the moments.
Click.
Ivan had found the old thing in his closet, hidden away in an old mahogany box in the back, behind all his uniforms and clothes and boots and boxes; he'd pulled it out and held it in one of his gloved hands, the other holding the neck of what was once the ninth vodka bottle. There was only one bottle left now, that bottle was empty. He held the old thing he'd found in one hand and stared at it, looking at the silver color of it, the heavy weight of it, the fact there was nothing in its chambers. He almost laughed, almost smiled, almost out it away but didn't. He couldn't.
Click.
Ivan had decided to play a game with the old thing, it had been so long since last he'd played that game. Not since long since wars, the sight of frantic soldiers staring in shock at him, the sight of pain-filled soldiers holding things like Ivan's to their own heads and others in the name of the game, in the name of Russia. Oh yes, he missed that game because it made him laugh to see the people plead, to beg, to cry and hope the bullet wouldn't come. They were always funny when they were so desperate for life; they never seemed to realize his logic. Kill his people like it was a game? Die like its a game.
Click.
Ivan wrote something down on a piece of page, nothing much, just a few words. He set his vodka bottle down, he stumbled towards the closet again to remove his jacket and put on a cleaner one, never removing his scarf. No never the scarf; his big sister gave it to him, he couldn't give it up. No, maybe he'd win the game; wait, what would it mean to win? He didn't remember or maybe had never cared; he'd never been the player in the game but instead was the one who made the rules and executed the game. He put on a new jacket, he wandered to his bed but only stood before it; he straightened out his jacket, playing with his scarf for a moment. It felt so warm and kind to him; he almost smiled, almost stopped, almost decided not to play but he wanted to.
Click.
Ivan picked up the old thing, the gun, he closed his eyes, he took a deep breath, he started to pull. One; nothing, a click. Two; nothing, a click. Three, four, five; nothing, nothing, nothing, a click again. Six and seven came and went; nearby a phone rang but Ivan wanted to keep playing, to see if he was worth winning(or losing) this game. Eight but nothing; his finger hesitated, his mind stopped, and he thought of the others. Would they smile or cry, miss him or hate him, forget him or forever remember him? No, no time for regrets; time to play the last round into game, to see if it was worth it to go on when everyone else loved someone else but him. So he pulled the trigger.
...
...
...
A sound like
thunder, and a thud; red water, sticky, thick, flowed onto the
carpet. The gun was still clenched in his hand, he lay on the ground,
violet eyes open, staring at nothing. The phone kept ringing, he
didn't care; why should he? His eyes closed, he actually smiled, he
actually laughed, he actually let go of the gun. Then everything went
quiet.
Lithuania returned home near to six, too late, too late; he
found Ivan and paled, and screamed. He called his name, "Ivan!
Ivan!" he called for Estonia, for Latvia, for Poland, for
anyone. But no one came. He held the nation, red water staining his
beloved scarf, and screamed, but did Ivan hear? No. And so they
buried him; Lithuania, Estonia, Poland, Sweden, Finland, America,
England, Canada, France, Latvia, Austria, Japan, Greece, turkey,
Switzerland, Hungary, Spain, Prussia, Italies, Germany,
Liechenstein, they never realized they had taken his place. They'd
held the gun and pointed it at him, they laughed as they made each
click; he'd made the killing of the people a game.
They played
Roulette with him.
Bang.
Veneziano: odd little
story, I feel bad for Ivan.
Ivan: I'm fine, see? *bleeding from
head*
Kiku: Ivan!