Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Snow.
The powdery white frozen rain that fell from the clouds and floated softly to the ground below. Russia loathed it with a burning passion. It was the reason why he became such a monster inside, why the mask he wears is all that remains of his innocence.
He remembered when he was but an innocent child.
Every morning he'd wake up with a bright smile and leap out of bed, running over to the window. He'd push the deep purple curtains away and looked out the window, hoping to see at least a faint glint of sunlight, to feel warmth on his ice cold skin. Every day his smile would fade when he saw nothing but pure white snow.
The snow never stopped falling in Soviet Russia, a fact he learned after several years of chasing a fantesy. Perhaps that's why he loved sunflowers so much, because they remind him of what he never had.
It was the snow, the snow that drove him insane or, at least, that's what he thought. It wasn't the beatings that drove him to insanity, though he'd certainly gotten plenty of those. He was hit on a daily basis by those who did not believe he deserved to represent their country. He never uttered a word of objection during these beatings, simply pleaded with his wide purple eyes for a little mercy, if it was conveniant.
It had occured to him one day that the color of snow was horribly bland and colorless, so he planned to give it color. Running away from the people he'd nicknamed 'beaters', he could have laughed; the fools had no idea what they were getting into.
He abrutly skid to a halt, ignoring the cold now piercing his skin through his pants. The beaters sneered at him. "Thought you could escape punishment?" A particulary tall one with brown hair said, walking toward the small Russian. "Idiot."
Russia flashed a terrifying grin, reaching for his metal pipe. "You're the idiot." His grin widened. "You die now, da?"
"Wh-?" But before he could finish, the Russian sprang forward, blowing the man's head off with his pipe.
Blood splattered all over the snow and his clothes and face. The others screamed, turning around and running away from the insane child. Russia reached up to wipe away the blood on his cheek, which felt warm, a strange but not unwelcome sensation for him. The Russian looked at the snow, red tinting the once white pure color. Oh god, it was so heartbreakingly beautiful. And, for the first time, Russia laughed. Snow is cold, yes, but nothing was colder than the blizzard in his frozen heart.