Winters in Russia were freezing. Snow was everywhere, falling softly and without a sound. At nighttime Russia could hear wolves occasionally howling to the full moon. Sometimes he would imagine he was a wolf; free and wild. He'd run around and do whatever he wished, hunting and feeling no remorse at killing. But it was only a dream for him. He was stuck being the country he was. He hated killing. He really did. But he was incapable of controlling himself when he got into his...insane...state. He carried his pipe everywhere. It had become his security blanket. It was covered in dried bloodstains but still glimmered in the light; shining through the rust colored substance to remind Russia what he used to kill people with. Russia was not in one of his states of insanity, nor his neutral state with a fake smile plastered on his face. No, he was in a much worse state than both of those. Medication never worked on him, believe me...he'd tried everything. Nothing could curve his depression.