A very short (and poorly written) drabble about Russia. I wrote it a while ago, and in a review for my other story, someone asked to read it, so...here you go ^^
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I trace my hands over the cold, cold glass, my fingers leaving whispering paths through the condensation. 'Condensation'. Such an ugly word. It sounds so hard and scientific, don't you think? I would prefer it had a nicer name; yes, perhaps I should call it 'туман '. I giggle at this, and a flare of warmth erupts in my chest; however, the heat scares me. I resume my stolid mask, clenching my numb fingers into a painful fist, then beat the window; one, two, three. Any answer? I wait, drawing the deliciously cool vapour into my lungs with long, heavy breaths; then, I release it again, yet unwilling to liberate the bitter embrace. For, of course, there is no answer. Now I press my face against the glass, the bitter cold of the Siberian winter seeping through to greet me like an old friend. Indeed, there is nothing quite like the feel of freezing glass against warm flesh.
With a sigh, I close my eyes, letting the darkness enfold me, and smile in rapture. The cold, the dark, the desolation; this is my heaven. At least, so I tell myself...
Я пропускаю солнцецветы, и тепло; никогда больше, никогда больше.
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Translations:
туман-Mist
Я пропускаю солнцецветы, и тепло; никогда больше, никогда больше-I miss the sunflowers, and the warmth; never more, never more.
Sorry if the translations are off, I don't speak a word of Russian ^^' This...I don't even know what this is. I'm sorry, it's really not very good.