I.
It's quiet. It's finally, finally quiet.
She stills (if there was movement to begin with, she cannot remember) and listens. Listens for a cry, a cheer, a voice, something. Silence, only silence. It's almost palpable- like smog, clogging her orifices and gripping her wrists and forcing her down, back, and down.
Belarus thinks she wanted this. Perhaps. It feels like so long ago, like it's been years since her whole life here was waiting and hoping and relishing and clinging.
She's not sure now. She's not sure of anything.
The antique rocking chair is all that supports her, all she's conscious of. For all she knows, she could be anywhere now. Somewhere with an antique rocking chair. It had been a fixture in her cozy little Minsk home since whatever resembled her girlhood. Perhaps because Russia had given it to her. That really was her motivation for everything, her whole life. The reason she wore that ribbon day in and out- once a beautiful creamy white, now a dismal, piss-like yellow. How lovely.
Somewhere, distantly, a phone rings.
Belarus is only vaguely aware of the shrill sound. It's a very old phone, almost as old as everything else. The rest of the world had moved along with the times, purchasing state of the art cellphones that could be grabbed at a moment's notice. Fit in well with the salmon stream of their world. Belarus had stuck faithfully beside her rotary, clunky and black and admittedly hideous. Lithuania had bought her a phone, for her birthday. She couldn't remember if she told him to just keep it or if she smashed it to sleek, convenient smithereens with her boot heel. Either way, she'd clung to her rotary. Good old Brestsky.
She didn't want to leave her rocker. On the other hand, it could be Russia. Russia hadn't called or contacted her in years, not just to talk anyway. It was always business between the two of them- no conversation devoid of the words "ruble" or "Kobiakov" or "NATO seminar". She didn't think today would be the day she'd hear "Hello, sister, how are you today? Would you like to get married?"
So she just let it ring. Ring ring ring ring ring ring.
"More."
II.
It's been a day, and she can't breathe.
Belarus had a nightmare, once, as a little girl. In it, she was trapped in a tiny, tiny room. No windows, no doors, nothing. And as she sat in the tiny, tiny room, it dawned on her that air was not unlimited. She was nothing, no cracks or spaces or anywhere to breathe fresh air. And in her panic, she began to swallow massive gulps of air. She had to hold her breath, only breathe when necessary, but in a state of panic lucid thinking is obscured by blind fear. So she gasped and croaked and grasped the air, as though she could hold it in her hand.
She had woken up with Russia's arms around her, begging her to wake up and breathe and everything was okay, it wasn't real.
Belarus often wondered when Russia would come, hold her, and tell her it wasn't real.
She got sick of that chair in the living room, so she made her way upstairs. It had been a while since she'd gone upstairs- she'd usually fallen asleep on her living room couch and would only stumble to her room if woken by a bird smashing into her window, something that happened astoundingly often. She never noticed just how creaky her floors were. It was like a one-sided conversation. Maybe the floor was nagging her, telling her to eat something and pack for the next meeting and do something about her hair- it had gotten astoundingly greasy in the past couple of days. All things she was doomed to hear from her sister anyway. Creak creak creak creak creak creak.
The scolding floor made Belarus realize just how empty her house was. She liked it that way- hell, every time Ukraine bounced over she just shoved her trifelnyj back into her hands, nice chat, don't let the door hit your breasts on the way out.
But it wasn't unnoticeable. All of the other nations travelled in packs- even that paranoid fuck with guns had his doe-eyed sister traipsing after him everywhere. Belarus was more than content alone (not that she ever showed it), willing to skulk along the halls quietly and eating her lunches in corner cafes with a moldy paperback as company. It was nice.
People, in Belarus' fine opinion, used up air. She would watch that hyper Italian blather on about nothing, gorging on that valuable oxygen much like he devoured pasta. Or that big, stupid Dane- where would that cocksure grin be when he was left drowning in his own carbon dioxide? Belarus could only thank them for providing her beautiful forests with enough nutrition to last past the apocalypse.
She had one window in that room- not the biggest window ever, and she hardly looked out it. Poor, neglected Grodnensky. Her view was of a plain old street, with clones of her house lined up like a bunch of soldiers in an absurd war between residences. Hilarious.
Belarus didn't know her neighbors. She figured that would be wise, they would certainly question the girl across the street who never aged beyond her late teens. It was stupid for her to live in a neighborhood in the first place, but she had had that house first- once a nice little place overlooking a forest. Some hundred years ago, those pretty trees were demolished and turned into a common suburbia. It felt like an American theme park in Minsk. Belarus had considered moving, but she was there first. Long first. And the last thing she was about to do was let some bastards run their own nation off her land. So she stayed.
She knew there was a family across the street- she saw them, sometimes, when she left to collect the mail. The mother of two little boys had waved to her once, and she had dutifully ignored her. That woman had no business with Belarus. She was not like her.
That was important to Belarus. Only find people like you. Why bother with others. She belonged to an elite group, an exclusive club with a list of rules extending past her arm. That eliminated the entire human population. She only liked a select few of them, and that was extending the definition of like to "can handle being in the same room as them without itching for her knife".
Russia, in her opinion, was the only one like her. Barely sane. Barely holding on to vestiges of the past. Barely tolerated by others.
Too bad Russia didn't see that the same way.
Belarus turned away from her window with an alacrity that made her floor screech in protest. "Oh, shut up." Fucking Vitebsky.
III.
Returning to the main floor was a bit of a shock. It was quiet, and it was late. Belarus wasn't sure how late- her clock hadn't worked in years and she could never be bothered to replace it, but it was well past midnight. The sky was an endless canvas of black- no stars staining it, no moon tattoo, and no lights from the neighboring houses disrupting. It was just pure blackness.
Belarus was thrilled.
Careful not to hurt herself, she found the rocker again. How odd, that it didn't creak. It was so old- much older than the smiling mother down the street. But it was kind, and quiet, and supportive. Just what Belarus needed.
Settling into the chair, feeling the hard back digging pleasantly into her tailbone, she pushed off a bit with her feet. A brief tipping sensation, before she moved forward again. Tipping this way, tipping that way. Tip tip tip tip tip tip.
It is bliss, euphoria, this quiet and darkness. And to think, that in a matter of hours, the sun would be demanding she rise and work for another day in a job she didn't choose. The phone would ring again, probably Ukraine or Lithuania, armed with cooing sympathies and baby talk and requests for her to leave the house. Goddamn everything.
So she forced herself up, her legs quaking in protest, and she moved through the darkness as easily as she moved through the light. Time to murder Brestsky. Hand twirled around the cord, easy as trifelnyj, and yank. The snap of the cord was the last sound heard out that faithful old rotary. What a shame, but nothing shamed, nothing gained.
Next, to silence the sun. She knew that was all sorts of impossible, but so was living forever. This time, the cord was not treated with disrespect- rather, with gentle hands, nimble and careful to move the blinds into their proper position. She wished she'd invested in curtains, or a shade, or perhaps a sheet of steel. These Venetian blinds would still let in little peeks of daylight.
Belarus could live with that.
And back into her chair- so hard and cool and inviting. Back to her controlled movements of tipping. It was a bit like being on the ocean, something she'd only done once. She couldn't even remember why. It had involved America purchasing a massive yacht and inviting all nations on board in lieu of their meeting on- how ironic- the American recession. She had gone only because Russia was, and Ukraine wouldn't be there. It was horrible- she'd been brutally attacked by the sun, and the churning of the waters had been enough to make her near sick.
That was, essentially, her life. A life of chasing after her brother, hoping that one day he would see sense and recognize that they were perfect for each other. She wasn't naïve- she knew what the other nations said, as though it were any of their business, and she knew what her family thought. Ukraine thought she was a sad, hopeless little mad girl who needed coddling and pastries and stupid reassuring smiles as though nothing was wrong. Russia thought she was his worst nightmare- how could she not notice how he recoiled at the very mention of her name and gave quiet little shrieks whenever she sat near him.
She had eyes. She saw.
Perhaps it was optimism or madness or unconditional love or all of the above. But it wasn't blindness. She saw Ukraine patronize her and Lithuania blindly pursue her and Poland snicker behind his (manicured) hand at her.
Belarus didn't give two shits about any of them. She cared about Russia, herself, and her people, and that was all. If caring was being mad, then colour her batshit.
Maybe Belarus would just stop caring.
Maybe she'd just sit in her trusty little rocking chair for the rest of her life. It didn't matter. Nothing was worth anymore. She didn't even know what was going to happen to her people, now.
Who fucking cares.
If only Russia would realize the lengths Belarus would go to be near him.
Being near people was such a waste.
IV.
It was six days.
Ukraine's calls to Belarus had become something of an exponential equation. Twice the first day, four times the second, eight times the third. Nothing. Nothing ever came through.
She'd gone to Russia first, thinking he'd surely heard something from her. Russia, worry creasing his forehead, had answered no. Lithuania, Poland, Estonia…everybody said no.
If there was one thing Ukraine understood, it was tragedy. This was so hard for Belarus. The death of a leader- particularly one of Lukashenko's variety- always took a hefty toll on its nation. She knew poor Belarus- a girl who was, despite appearances, terribly delicate- was feeling everything her people imposed on her. Joy, devastation, anxiety, stress, anticipation.
So on the sixth, armed with trifelnyj, Ukraine went to Belarus' house in Minsk.
As she pulled up to the drive, a woman across the street, balancing a toddler in her arms, called out to her.
"You are her sister, aren't you?"
Ukraine affirmed this.
"She hasn't opened her blinds since…" the woman lowered her voice, so as not to disturb her sleeping son "…it. I knocked on her door, but nothing. It's like she's dead."
Something bunched in Ukraine's stomach, despite the improbability of that. If Belarus had died, that woman and her sleeping son would have vanished into thin air. "I highly doubt that," she couldn't keep the cold out of her normally polite voice. "But I appreciate your concern."
She made her way up the steps, careful not to slip on the ice, and tentatively knocked. She'd often been told she was a good knocker. That or that she had good knockers, but she'd be damned if she could tell. A firmer rap this time.
"Belarus, its Ukraine. I know you're upset, but you really need to come out and Russia's hosting a meeting in Moscow Friday and I brought trufelnyj."
There, she'd hit all the right spots.
Silence.
"Belarus, please. Everybody is worried. Russia wanted so desperately to come, but you know he had to set up everything and…"
More silence. Ukraine could feel the telltale constriction in her throat, but Belarus would not let her in if she cried. She'd learned that the hard way.
"Belarus!"
Fighting back the tears, Ukraine made her way off the stoop, very carefully, and around the sides of the house. Belarus had invested well in windows- when she was smaller, she'd sit for hours by the nearest window and just stare at the people outside. She didn't even seem to notice when the people outside stared back. She'd always had an insatiable curiosity, and such an imagination. Ukraine remembered a small Belarus, toddling around their home as the wind battered it, commenting on how everything was talking to her. The wind, the floors, the cracking fire.
She'd also had a habit of naming everything. That was so endearing.
The woman had been right- Belarus had shut her blinds as well as the blinds would allow without snapping, and Ukraine couldn't see a thing. She knocked on the windows, all six of them, before surrendering to the cold and rushing into the warmth of her car.
The heater worked its lungs to warm her as Ukraine tapped Russia's number into her (admittedly archaic, as though she could afford any better) phone. He answered almost instantly.
"She's not responding." Don't cry, don't cry, you're fine, she's fine, we're all fine. "She's got the blinds up."
"I'll postpone the meeting."
"But that's Friday, surely people have arrived by now!"
"They will understand. I'll be in Minsk by tomorrow."
"I don't know what to do." Oh dear, a wayward sob. Ukraine couldn't help it. Her poor baby sister.
"Belarus is fine. We have all gotten through worse. I'll bring her sunflowers and Lithuania."
Come Thursday, the meeting had been moved indefinitely, something people grumbled about but not to the host's face. So as the nations wandered about Moscow, Russia sped through Minsk in his little rented car, Lithuania in tow. Unfortunately, he couldn't find many sunflowers, but Lithuania should be consolation enough. They had once been so close.
Ukraine met him in front of Belarus' house, her hands shoved deep into her pockets and breath escaping in little puffs. The door, she explained, was locked, all blinds drawn, and Belarus had never left her abode. A predicament to be sure. Thankfully, Russia wasn't always quite as polite as his sister.
The door demolished, the trio made their way inside. The interior of the house was coated in thick layer of dust, reminiscent of the snow outside. The swirling motes were only made visible by the sunlight spilling through the doorway. All the lamps were off and all the windows shuttered. It was amazing, in a way, how Belarus had somehow managed to create night in the day.
Russia made his way down the hall in search of his terrifying (terrified?) sister, his hefty boots trailing mud and filth across the greyed floors. "Belarus."
Normally, his even acknowledging her name was enough to send the girl running towards him, her dour face pulled into a beatific grin. But nothing. Just quiet.
It was now that it dawned on Russia that something was, indeed, very very Wrong.
"Belarus!" Lithuania called, before tearing off down the empty hall, bursting through all the closed doors and flicking on the long neglected lights. "Belarus!"
Methodically, the group worked throughout the dark, reintroducing the house to light. Within only seconds, the museum of silhouettes and questions became a full on lights gala.
It was Russia who found her.
Sitting in a chair, prim and proper and perfect as a little doll, Belarus stared back at him with rounded, unblinking eyes. So wide were her eyes that the blue iris was flanked by white on all sides, besmirched with little pink snakes. And judging from the way her dress, that fancy dress she always wore, bagged around her frame, she had not eaten in days.
Shit.
Russia made his way towards her, carefully, so as not to frighten the broken girl. Careful, slow, gentle. His hands- he never realized until now how large they were- made their way to her face, gently tuning it to face him. The eyes, those eyes, those horrible parodies of eyes, met his. And the expression never changed, the eyes never blinked.
She was a doll.
The silence was shattered just as easily, and he could hear the brash thuds of boots on hardwood. Ukraine and Lithuania. Right. Them.
Russia knew he should say something, something reassuring. Her name, it's okay my sweet sister, I'm here for you, I'm sorry, it's all right.
Silence, really, only seemed appropriate. Maybe because she had so much become a porcelain doll that it seemed wrong and pointless to talk to it. Maybe because Russia had no idea what to say. Maybe because Belarus had the right idea, that silence was better.
Words would just be a waste.
FIN
My God, this is overwrought. Overwrought and weird. This is very, very, VERY loosely based on Samuel Beckett's "Rockaby", a tremendous piece of work, but what else do you expect from the master of absurdism?
I know Lukashenko isn't dead. I wouldn't want to write something in the wake of an actual dictator's death, since it's probably such an emotional, confusing time for the people. I would never know this, growing up eith a silver jug of maple syrup in my mouth and all that. But, you know. Tried.
Thank you for sticking by my lack of talent. First work, what do you expect?