It was times like these that Ivan wished everything would just stop. That the pain, sadness, hurt and crime that made not just Russia but every single country in the world its home would simply cease to exist. But Russia, with a growing heroin addiction and its new, lethal and easily affordable substitute Krokodil, wasn't going to achieve peace any time soon. This was how Ivan knew that his dreams of peace and happiness in his country would forever remain dreams and nothing more.
Having over 2.5 million addicted citizens, it was no surprise that Ivan had started to feel the euphoric effects of the drug himself. He would lie awake at night giggling to himself about whatever strange and drug-induced thought popped into his head, closing his eyes and letting the warmth and the happiness take him over.
The Russian often wandered about in the large, dark corridors of his empty home, bumping into the walls every so often after which hysterical laughter would ensue. Usually Ivan found his way to the kitchen, groping around in the dark for a bottle of vodka which he would empty in a matter of minutes.
The mornings after these heroin-infused treks around his sizeable house, Ivan typically found himself on the cold wood floors of his kitchen with an empty bottle of alcohol by his side. It was after a few of these nights however that Ivan started to think that maybe, just maybe, he liked the feeling the substance gave him.
Ivan suffered from chronic depression and as a result was forced to take low doses of ketamine twice a week in an attempt to ease his sadness, but this proved to be ineffective for him. In truth, the only real antidepressant that worked for Ivan was a person, a person whom the Russian loved with all his heart. But Ivan knew that he could never be with this person, this paradox whom he adored and so other medications had been prescribed to replaced them.
This drug that so many of his people have given their lives for was helpful to Ivan. It made him happy, if only for a little while, and Ivan was hooked. He craved more and more of the joyful feeling heroin provided, and the nightly fix his people provided him with was not and would never be enough.
Acquiring the drug had been simple. There were dealers everywhere, if you knew where to look. Ivan already had hypodermic needles at his home in his own personal operating theatre, built solely for his own twisted sense of entertainment.
Ivan sat alone on his sofa for a long while; what he thought had been minutes may very well have been hours. He stared at the needle in his large, soft hand, toying with it as if it didn't contain a mind altering and highly addictive poison. It was strange, Ivan noted, how sometimes the most dangerous of objects and places were attractive for some.
Take standing on top of a skyscraper and looking over the edge, for example. You can't help but feel a consuming and pressing urge to jump, despite knowing that it would surely kill you.
Ivan rolled up his sleeve, extending his forearm, and lined the needle up with the thick blue vein easily visible beneath his pale skin. He gazed down at the hypo, his own personal skyscraper off which to leap to a certain death. But death was something that didn't come easily to any nation, and so Ivan pressed the needle into his skin, his bloodstream, his life force, and took the plunge.
It was almost as if Ivan could feel the substance racing through his body in a desperate, scrambling and fast paced attempt to reach his brain. He placed the needle aside and leaned back on the comfortable but worn sofa, and waited for the drug to take effect.
The sense of euphoria was almost immediate. Ivan let a high pitched giggle escape from his lips at the wonderful feeling. It was much more intense than the high his people gave him, and he loved it.
Ivan felt warm and happy inside, as if that somebody he loved more than life itself was right there beside him, giving the lonely Russian a loving, warm hug. He wrapped his arms around himself, closing his eyes and letting his mind believe that they were still there, that they hadn't left them despite knowing how much they meant to Ivan and how much he depended on them.
Smiling beatifically he mumbled to himself, "I love you, sunflower. I love you, I love you, I love you..." feeding his drug-addled brain the lie that he wasn't alone any longer and that Alfred hadn't left him.
Oh, he could definitely get used to this.
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