His Memory

by Imalkikal

Prussia is forced to live with Soviet Russia during the Cold War. He reflects on his time spent there and how he made it through those brutal 43 years. T for language.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I hate them. I hate all of them. I hate everyone.

I hate the Axis for losing their fucking war.

I hate the Allies for fucking dissolving me.

And I fucking despise Russia, who couldn't just let me fucking die.

Assholes. Fuckers. They have no fucking idea what I'm going through. What they've done to me. I can't fight back. For the first time in my life I'm actually…weaker than someone. Soviet Russia is a strong son of a bitch. If I could kill him, I would. In a fucking heartbeat. But I can't. I fucking can't.

…But he could kill me. He could kill me so fucking easily. But he won't. Apparently torturing me is more fun. Bastard. I refuse to give him any kind of satisfaction. I won't scream. I won't cry out. I haven't yet and I never will…even if I'm forced to be here forever.

I think I'm starting to forget what everyone looks like. West is starting to become a blur. I don't remember the sound of Spain's voice. Or the smell of the pasta that cute little Italy would always make. I don't remember what it's like to be warm. I'm fucking stuck in Siberia. Goddamn fucker.

There is one thing I remember. Or, at least, I think I remember. Francis Bonnefoy, the country of France. We used to be friends. I'm sure he hates me now. He helped them dissolve me, after all. But I guess I can't really blame him. I did beat the shit out of him during the war…but I still loved him. So damn much. I think about him a lot in my spare time now. When I'm alone. Once that Soviet bastard decides he's through with me for the day, for the hour, for the minute, whatever, I think about France. Francis. About what life would be like if he loved me, too. I thought maybe then I could actually be happy.

Thinking like that helped me get through the Cold War. I took torture and abuse from Soviet Russia day after day after day, not knowing if it would ever end. But I pretended it would, and I told myself that Francis would be waiting for me. Of course I knew that wasn't true, but my mental state at the time wasn't exactly the best. It still isn't. But after all the shit I've been through, it would be crazy for me not to be crazy. And I was. But I was crazy about Francis, too. He would never know, but his memory was the sole thing that kept me alive during those forty-three years of hell.

Love is one fuckin' weird thing.