I know I have no right to be making a new story…but I want to…. -_- I was listening to Teardrop by Massive Attack for the first time in like 6+ months and I got inspired, it happens. Seriously, look up that song and read this. If you're watching on you tube, don't mind the…..interesting music video.
Neurotic Obsession
Snow fell lightly and silently on the frozen streets of the capital. It was a dark night. Blood gave a warm, dull crimson color to the pearly and perfect snow in splotches throughout the city. Despite the obscenity of this wicked scene, there was a peaceful charm to it. A charm of aftermath.
A young man holding the reins of a beastly Clydesdale walked through the snow, the wetness of the winter staining his thick leather boots. He stopped outside of the Winter Palace and looked at the ruins blankly. A cold breeze cut through his warm clothes, sending a chill down his spine. A stench rose up with the breeze. It was rancid; the stench of dismembered bodies. The man continued to walk with his horse, bags of goods and tools piled on the animal's back. The only sound was the sound of hooves clanking on the bloody cobblestone.
In the distance, there seemed to be another sound, but the man dismissed it. The sound got louder, and through a pile of broken planks and snow, a young woman with a tattered, bloody dress burst out with a grunt. She panted a little with her hands on her knees, and collapsed to the stone ground. The young man walked over towards the woman with his horse and he knelt down in front of her. She slowly turned her head to look at him. Her dress was dark black, with a once-white apron tied tightly around her waist. The neckline came up to her collarbone, and the dress looked as if it were a regal piece at one time. But now it was tattered, dirty, and limp. She had no shoes on her feet, only stockings, and her hands were bare. Her distraught face had a pair of silver eyes and porcelain features, reddened by the sheer cold. Her nearly-white blonde hair was tied back in a messy braid, pieces of hair falling out.
"Are you alright?" the man asked. Her face wrinkled up and her eyes went wide. She winced a little and sprung up, scooting backwards, hindered by a gun-wound on her shoulder.
"Stay away from me! Bastard! You did this to my home! And I saw what you did to my Lady Anastasia!" she screamed with desperation, holding a hand in front of her face. The man stood up calmly and walked towards her. She whimpered at this and tried to back away, but was stopped against the rubble she had emerged from earlier. She braced herself as the man bent down to her.
"I won't ever hurt you," he said with a childish grin. The woman looked up at him, at ease, but defensive at the same time. She stared for a few seconds, and tears welled up in her eyes. With a swift movement, she clutched onto his beige coat for her dear life.
"Don't let them kill me! I couldn't protect Miss Anastasia from the Bolsheviks! They killed her, and I couldn't help her because I was shot, too! She was my mistress, and if they ever found out! They'd-they'd-" her pleas turned to sobs as she let the tears fall. The young man embraced her gently and pulled her to her feet.
"I already told you, I won't ever hurt you, and I won't let anyone else touch you. Because you are mine now," he said and gave another childish grin. He felt her barely pull away. Her eyes filled with fear, she clutched onto his coat, but then loosened, and clutched again.
"I'm Anya…" the woman said with a hint of ashamedness.
"My name is Russia," the man said. Anya looked up at him and gave a quick smile.
"Your name is the same as our country's," she said. Russia smiled again and gripped onto her hips, causing her heart to speed up. He picked her up gently and lifted her onto the large horse in front of the bagged goods. Anya felt the temptation to get off and run, but she was in no position to be on her own, and so, she stayed on the horse as Russia turned and lead them away from the ruined St. Petersburg after the Bolsheviks arrived.
To Anya, it seemed as if she were traveling in a barren wasteland with a mentally unstable stranger dead set on making her his. She was very afraid. Only a few hours ago was she the humble servant to the youthful Princess Anastasia, and now she was lost. But the more Anya looked at Russia, the man who stole her away, the more she placed her trust in him. He seemed so gentle, yet so deadly. He was kind, yet overpowering. There was something that drew her to him, like a faint light in the cold darkness. A faint like with a faint warmth drifting her way. He didn't speak much, but when he did, his simple and plain words murdered the doubts she constantly developed.
Anya's toes and fingers were numb now. She pinched her toes to test them, and felt absolutely nothing. She was going to be frostbitten if this went on any longer. Just then, Russia stopped walking, and the horse stopped too, and he turned around to face her. Anya looked up at him, shocked. Russia was taking is long, off-white scarf off from around his neck. Walking over to the side of the horse, he ripped the scarf into fourths like they were paper. Anya froze. Taking her foot, he began to gently wrap one piece around it and tied it off. He did the same for her other foot and her hands. Anya's insides boiled when he took her hand so lightly. It was almost a feathery touch, though her hands were numb.
'What is it about this man, I feel as if I could stay forever with him, and yet…I want to be as far from him as possible…' Anya thought to herself.
As other parts of her body began to go numb, Russia would sacrifice some of his own warmth for her and give her a piece of his clothing. The journey seemed to last forever, and Anya felt as if it were years since she had seen the sun. The snow was falling so heavily, and the wind was steadily ripping through her skin. Just when she thought that the journey couldn't have been longer, she saw shapes in the distance. Anya squinted to get a better look, with no avail. Russia stopped again, and the horse did too. He turned around her way and smiled childishly.
"That is my home ahead," he said and lost the smile on a whim. They trudged on through the snow, and as they got closer, Anya could make out the shapes of small buildings. She saw one room houses, built with weak wood. Steel chimney's from heaters all rose from the houses. There was a large wooden, rickety barn with a frail silo on its side. Anya jumped when she heard the random yet harmonious firing of rifles scattered throughout the small excuse for a village. Russia stopped by one of the cookie-cutter houses and lead the horse inside a small building next to the house. He walked over to Anya and grabbed her hips firmly yet gently once again and lifted her off the horse. He set her down as if she were a priceless artifact and turned his attention to stripping his horse of her saddle and bridle. Anya stood, motionless, and watched as Russia laid a thick blanket over the mare's back and patted her neck. She snorted. Russia turned past Anya and began to walk, clutching to her hand when he passes her. Anya gasped a little but followed behind him, for if she slowed down, she would've been dragged. They emerged from the hut, and Russia shut the door with his foot as they walked out. Anya looked into the heart of the village. There were no roads, no lights, just snow. Divots from previous footprints littered the intended road. Anya and Russia walked alongside his house and made their way to the door. The gunshots were accompanied by crude exclamations now, and they seemed to be getting louder. Anya held Russia's hand harder now, and she began to fiddle with the lace at the neckline of her dress. Russia pulled the door to his house open, plowing snow out of the way at the same time. He lead Anya inside with a childish smile and closed the door behind her, securing an assortment of locks.
"Welcome to my home, Anya. I've lived here for a very long time. I need to get some firewood now to turn the heater on, you stay here and I'd better not come back to an empty house," he said and chuckled, taking a rifle from the corner of the one-room house that seemed more like a shed to Anya now that she was inside. Russia left the house without waiting for a response from Anya. She was taking in her surroundings. To her right was a small bed with one blanket and a worn out pillow. At the foot of the bed was a window with a black piece of fabric pulled away, acting as a curtain. A barrel full of rifles stood under the window, and a sink pipe was among the rifles as if it were a weapon of its own. In front of Anya was a small black furnace with thick grills hiding the pile of ashes inside. Next to the furnace was a small wooden table with a cabinet above it, supporting a few unmatched bowls and mugs. Spoons lined one of the shelves, all perfectly aligned with a mild flair of obsessive compulsion. To the left of the table was a delicate floor cabinet that had various sacs and jars in them, probably grains and liquids. To her left was a dresser, nothing on top, just a dresser.
Russia came back inside just then, and Anya turned to him.
"Is it hard living here like this?" she asked, hearing more gunshots. Her gaze slowly drifted to the window with the black fabric and saw a figure crawling through the snow, leaving a bloody trail behind. Her sight was cut off by Russia frantically unclipping the fabric and covering the window. He smiled.
"Yes, it was much harder at first, but I know now how to live in this way," he sad and dumped his rifle in the barrel below the window. He had an armful of firewood, and he made his way to the furnace, kneeling down to it. Anya walked over to the bed as he began to get the furnace going. She sat on the bed and sighed. She heard the sound of a match lighting and looked up to Russia throwing the lit match into the furnace. A smile lit on his face as the fire lit.
He stood up and brushed his hands on his long coat,
"There we go. Once the fire becomes stronger I'll make some food." Anya smiled a little, but regretted it soon after, then took her regret back.
'He is so kind…how can there be something wrong with him? I must be the crazy one, not him,' she thought.
As the night went on, Anya talked to Russia of many things, he smiled at all of them and listened very closely, loving every detail. She talked about her time living in the Winter Palace and feeling as if she were one with the dynasty. Russia's ears perked up at this. He stopped her suddenly.
"Well now, you have had a busy day, so why don't you lay down there and get some sleep. Give me your empty bowl and go to bed," he said. This made Anya a little nervous, but she did as he requested and laid on the bed with her back to Russia and tried to sleep.
A gunshot fired, and Anya's eyes opened and her heart skipped a beat. She sat up slowly and looked around. The furnace was glowing with weak embers, and Russia was asleep against the side of the bed. Anya crawled to the foot of the bed and peeked behind the black fabric. The scene was the same, except the figure she saw earlier was now limp a few meters further. Night was still running its course, and the snow had finally stopped. Anya looked back to the house, and stealthily got off of the bed, not making a sound. Tiptoeing to the door, she placed a hand on the knob and looked back to Russia. Hesitating, Anya forced herself to inch the door open and slide out into the snowy streets. She gently shut the door and felt the rush of Winter's breath. Looking around, she saw a second pair of boots against Russia's house. She slipped into the oversized boots and set out into the snow.
'I need to get out of here. It just doesn't feel right being with him…but where do I go?' she thought, but continued to wander. Another gunshot startled her and she stopped. A figure was leaning against the barn ahead, and by the looks of it, Anya assumed this person to be the one firing the gun a few moments ago. The figure laughed a little bit, and his head appeared to move.
"Hey, what have we here? Looks like an employee of the royal family. What a surprise, didn't think you had the guts to come down to this placed, where violence is a part of the community," the apparent man said. Anya stood still and said nothing. "Come on, don't you know where you are? You're in the real world! This is what the rest of this sad, sad country is like. Of course you wouldn't know since you've been eating warm beef and drinking cool wine all your days at that damned palace of yours haven't you." Anya said a prayer in her head as he continued to rant. "You see what we did to that little princess? Hah Dear Lord, was she fun. We raped that girl and hit her so many times, I was surprised at how short a time that girl took to die." Anya almost died inside. "I guess when you're so used to living pampered lives, you sometimes neglect how much pain you can really take…" The man walked towards Anya. She couldn't move. She thought she was going to die. Each step the man took seemed like a shot to the heart. She was going to die, she knew it was true. The man was close now, and his grizzly and haunting features made Anya begin to cry. He reached a hand out to her. He inched closer and closer.
A towering figure behind the man let a weapon fall down and crash over his head. The man hit the ground with a thud. His face was blank, and blood began to ooze from his skull. The figure stepped over the dead man and looked at Anya. He held a bloody sink pipe in his right arm. Anya's eyes were glued to the intoxicating violet eyes staring a hole through her.
"Russia…" she whimpered. Russia smiled childishly.
"I told you I wouldn't let anyone else touch you, remember?" he said. Anya almost laughed, but it came out as a smile. Her face them turned solemn. She looked away from him. She felt the rejection poisoning Russia.
"Russia, I can't stay here. Won't you please take me to Moscow? The royal family is there, and I must return to them," Anya said. Russia was very quiet. Anya almost regretted what she said, because she wasn't sure if her skull would be bashed open by a sink pipe as well.
"Of course I will. I can get a new house there and you can live with me still. Because you are still mine, remember? I took a long look at you in St. Petersburg and I decided I loved you and you would be mine," Russia said. Anya blushed a little and smiled at him.
here was indeed something wrong with him, but Anya was now looking at him in a new light. His neurotic obsession saved her life, and she would never forget it. As for his love to her, Anya was not sure she fully shared the same feelings, but Moscow was far, and things can change. Things would always change.
I'm glad I decided to make this a oneshot….otherwise it would never get finished. Anyways, this is what happens when you listen to too much classical and far-out music while doodling Russia chibis on a road trip to Minnesota. I know lots of you folks don't like APH oc's but frankly, I don't care. R+R! Have yerself a good summah!