Hello there everyone. I know, I know! I should be working on my other stories. I'm sorry. This was spontaneous, okay? Encourage my random side. It will bring you more rambling stuff like this. (Or maybe you don't want to encourage my rambling side. ^^')
Anyways, standard disclaimer: I own nothing at all. Please don't sue me. I am doing this out of love. And please, please, don't be offended.
If you have constructive criticism, I make the usual begging-puppy-face: please review~!
If you are insulting just to be insulting, I will summon England who will summon a unicorn. TO EAT YOU. cough
So, please read and enjoy. But remember, this is T for a reason (T for tragedy~- no, not really). There are dark aspects, and a bit of violence references. And language.
Anyways, I hope you like this. Now, everyone, serious faces, the story is starting.
Ivan does not notice the snow around him. It Is not nearly as icy as the tangled knot (as hidden and complex as secret police) in his ribcage, thin tendrils connecting it to his white ribs, pointed as bayonets, to his twisted toxic heart pounding ice water and venom through his blue veins. He tries to ignore it, which is difficult.
Slowly sliding out of one poorly gloved hand is a weapon. He isn't sure from what era: but it can't be too old; he no longer acknowledges the existence of Russia (of himself). After all, he is newer greater stronger better with red communism stitched onto the scarf from once-Ukraine, once-sister (now she's just another Comrade and he tells himself that's not why she cries). He knows he should not be here somewhere in the northern depths of his house- he has meetings to attend, with China, slipped away from him like the past world of imperial ice sculptures; meetings to attend with America, smiling too brightly, teeth like white lead paint picket fences, laughing to cover up his hatred (bleach and blood diamonds and alphabets come to the Soviet's mind); meetings to attend with East Germany, pale skin cold with tears and lost identities, eyes as bloody as the freedom he wants (the freedom he fears)- but he cannot bring himself to rise.
The ghosts find him first, long before any human or nation. They always do, with bloody smiles and gaping holes and smudged outlines. He glances at them, wonders why they are here (knows it is his fault). They wait with him, the dead zeks; the starved children; the teenage girl with gashes in her jewelled bodice and an impish face: somewhere in his mind he knows who she is (a guilty voice whispers ' Anastasia) but he pushes her away, her tear drop family, his splintered heart. These gray half-light people swarm around him, and he knows why. He should have saved them, should have, should have. Didn't. Ivan turns away from what that might mean to his conscience (but it's dead already, doesn't he know?). Their presence pulses at his temples like the hangovers he never has. What are they waiting for? He wonders with a mind numbed by vodka and the cold (by false misery and ecstasy).
It is America who finds him then, smiling victory and poison, but there's a trace of worry in his eyes (if the Soviet Union is gone, who will he hate with his hopeless heart all broken with cholesterol and heroes gone wrong?) and when he speaks there is no happiness there.
"What the fuck are you doing, Ivan?" Why is America using his human name? That belongs to the past, to the ghosts infiltrating his can only smile, teeth bared like prison bars. A weak laugh (the soup of his peasants) bubbles coldly at his throat but shies from entering the world.
"Don't smile, you bastard, get up. We had a fucking meeting," And America slaps him, calmly, with one gloved hand. Why do we always wear gloves when our hearts twist away from the light? He wonders, barely wincing at the slap. America picks something up from next to him- the knife that was in Ivan's hand, ugly and twisted and lethal (this is what Ivan sees in the mirror, though he does not believe himself). America tosses the knife away, into the snow, "You'll find it later. Now up!" He pulls the once-Russian to his feet, and smiles crooked as gang wars as the man blinks back to reality.
"What do you want, capitalist pig?" Soviet snarls. America replies with equal insults. They are merely exchanging pleasantries, because to say any truth would be to maim and mar the perfection they have so carefully crafted of hatred and dark deeds- stab and shoot and kick in the dark and we'll keep it to ourselves, like teenagers with a secret. Their meetings are painful and pointless; games of Russian Roulette (only neither have a gun, so they try to suicide with bitter jagged words) and aimless torture, enjoying the crimson at the edge of flesh and vision and pouring too much salt in should-have-healed wounds. Ivan does not remember the last time he had a sane conversation with someone- has he ever? The answer is immediately on his mind (You spoke calmly to the Tsars) but it's wrong wrong wrong because that wasn't him, that was Russia and they are different (Because Russia could love,because Russia was loved, but no no of course not- Soviet is loved too- right?). Ivan shoves the thoughts from his mind and concentrates on his meaningless conversation with the American boy. A voice in the back front side (echoing around like power with a megaphone) of his head tells him not to be silly he is even younger than America. Brand new: shinier and sharper and better, a kitchen knife with no grease stains. Instead the knife is doused in blood, drip-dropping onto his pale skin like a virus - but no, of course not, that is Russia speaking; stupid Russia, a blind nation content to be a serf. Russia did not have the freedom that Soviet has gained- he has earned it with a price of blood but it was worth it. That is what he tells himself as America walks away, back to a home filled with old regrets and stupidity, blond hair shining like gasoline and gunfire in the harsh sun, a sun peering down with watery eyes to an earth where the thrones are all false gold and shared by bickering kings, power-lust pounding in their chests and imaginary crowns (Why do they so resemble shackles?) balancing like too many dishes on their heads.
Ivan knows that the scarf around his neck will soon fray and disappear; he hears them gossiping, whispering that his sanity has already frayed away, and he tries to ignore it but their voices slice so deep- he wanted to trust them instead he'll have to hurt them. Watching once-nations bleed away doesn't pinch anymore, and he tells himself he'll never have to let go of their too-thin bodies (only Russia believes they'll slip away and Russia, smiling dancer Russia, laughing diplomat Russia, fighting soldier Russia, everything everyone Russia, he is useless). Ivan has no time to think any longer of the English speaking blond with eyes like drown-yourself-lakes. He is not important, Soviet knows, because he will fall (empires always do, perched as they are on pillars of moral disgrace) and when he does the fleeting words of his past glory will be buried under those of allegiance to the Soviet Union- Soviet knows he cannot fall for he is no empire, rather a group of like-minded countries- and the thought of the world united (their heads at his feet) makes him shiver with anticipation. He will wait, impatience bitter on his tongue like the pills he once swallowed: the Leaders told him he did, and though he can remember neither shape nor size nor color and the taste (chalky, dry and choking or honey-sweet and sapping? Did they taste of false triumph and lost glory or of bad beginnings-endings-everythings?), he is sure that he once let them get to his brain. Ivan smiles, eyes like frost-bitten fingers, and laughs a little, relief and pent-up hatred and so much anger (and he almost thinks it is sadness). America is gone. Now he must think of Hungary, with her overstretched heart and wilting flower fragrance (and he remembers that her eyes used to be fiery and burning); of Poland, so determined and powerful and possessing a strange denied beauty. He must especially think of his once-sisters, so stricken by Chernobyl's cancer: Ukraine, with her tearful eyes and maternal attitude beaten into worry; Belarus, with her attractive instability and whirling emotions translated into anger. Soviet's smile grows wider: at the beginning of the second millennium (which is barely more than a decade away), everyone will live in his house; the empty northern fields will be filled with visitors and the ghosts haunting Soviet with their ghastly fragrance will be pushed away by life (and Russia, lingering on like the aftermath of disaster, like the aftermath of love, will vanish).
Ivan falls to the ground, coughing up red strands of guilt and regret and bottled up loneliness. When the other nations find him he is already in a coma, blood dripping from his blue lips and tortured eyes shut- a star gone supernova.
Zeks is the name for a prisoner of the Gulag. Um. Yea. R&R, please. Thank you for reading.