A/N Sorry if there are any grammar mistakes, or spelling. I don't have a beta right at the moment. I don't own Hetalia, nor do I own Russia. So read mah minions!~
This story is dedicated to... um... Sweey is one of them 'cause as far as I know I got her hooked on Hetalia, and I guess the other is Chandinee Richards for being my support! Thanks Chandinee and Sweey! I hope I don't depress you with this fic... or mentally disturb you... o.e
He, your father, could play a violin as if some god with invisible strings pulled his fingers from high up in the dusty rafters, like a puppet. He could make each and every song sound like a story being told.
You enter the room, expecting to find him in this usual position, playing the small wooden instrument- but instead you find the man you hold dear, sprawled on the floor. His face contorting in pain, gasping and unable to speak.
"Dad!" You manage to scream, running over to his side he opens his mouth, his violet eyes enlarged with his silent screams of pain.
You feel a slight breeze pass through the cold winter house as it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
He twitches, legs splaying out on the floor- sometimes throwing spasmodic waves across them. He looks at you, you inherited his violet eyes, but not the gentle touch as he had been gifted with. You hug him, trying to get your father to snap out of it and go back to his usual kind self. You call out for help, trying to gain the mercy of a neighbor happening to hear your cries. But there are no neighbors in this cold barren wast-land though. None for miles and miles.
His breathing is labored, unable to take in enough breath to regulate himself you try and hold him down – trying to force the spasms to stop. You taste hot tears burn your cheeks, drip down onto your fathers heaving chest. He slowly begins to calm, still twitching and in pain but he manages to place a half-controlled hand onto your head. It flattens your soft, short hair, he runs his finger through it.
"I-Ivan.." He coughs, spattering you're cheek with blood as you lean in close to hear his whispered voice.
"You cannot trust anyone, you hear me. Everyone will try to gain advantage of you- and they will hurt you if you let them get to close." He strokes your soft hair. Then gives in to another attack of seizures.
"Wake up, папа!" You scream, after he has stopped moving. Your cries slow to just whimpers as you sense his absence of breath.
You stand, feeling the cold wooden floors that creak under your weight. You still hunch over your dead father as light starts to filter in through the cracked windows. You straighten, feeling your stiff back crack as the vertebra realign. You are still staring at the stiff form unmoving on the floor.
A small knot forms in your stomach and seems to roll it's way up your throat and escapes into a blood-curdling scream. Why did he have to go? Why did he leave you her. He, your father, the man dedicated in protecting you and your two sisters suddenly gone. He didn't need to go...
You can hear your older sister call from the next room over: "What is it brother? What has happened?" You can't speak. It seams as if a huge weight is being forced onto your shoulders as you curl up into a little ball by your fathers body.
Katushya's head peeks into the room, not seeing the body or you she calls out again. "Brother? Is everything alright?"
You can hear her calling for you as she leaves the room and disappears down the hall way. You stroke the soft scarf that was perched ceremoniously around your head. The soft fibers brushing against your calloused fingertips as you bury your face deep into their warmth. Before you dip your entire face down though something catches your eye- a sunflower.
The bright yellow blossom sits bravely on the window sill, the harsh wind from outside beating at the frail glass pains as you blink at it slowly. Your eyelids feel like they have lead attached to them. But the sunflower seemed to be the only bright thing in the room now. Everything else seemed to be gray or a shade of brown. Except the sunflower. It grew proudly and defiantly colorful against General Winter's contrasting bitter colors. "подсолнечник" you think to your self calmly as a small smile spreads across your face. It was like the sunflower was placed there deliberately to cheer you up. Maybe it had been.
Maybe your father understood he was going to die. And he wanted the beautiful flower there to make you to feel secure in his time of passing.
Is this why Russia like sunflowers so much... hm... well, go own click that little button below that says review on it and review! I love you and will give ya an internet biscuit if you do~