*Warnings: * mentions of suicidal feelings. Also, I tried to make the flow quite jumbled to match Russia's state of mind.
Another restless night, and yet another day...
Russia sighed heavily, feeling the emptiness eat at his heart. It was slowly wearing away at him, eroding him and his emotions until he barely felt anything. What was it like to smile? Could he remember how to laugh? The memories of the past where he felt happy and motivated and even hopeful were nothing but what they were; reminiscences. Often, he dreamt of those times, and for the briefest of moments could empathize, could actually feel those long-lost feelings that didn't seem real to him anymore... yet upon waking, and remembering, they melted into nothing, as though never there in the first place.
Two years had passed since That Day. Two long years, where the colors slowly began to fade, and the passion began to depart. It felt as though a life time had passed during that period of time, yet also at the same time it felt as though it only just happened, and the scene was re-enacting itself in his head, around and around, becoming stronger and more prominent with each replay, lost in shock and burning with guilt.
He closed his violet eyes tight, and took a deep breath.
He wouldn't cry.
Yet even as he told himself that, the familiar sensation of an obtrusive lump was forming at the back of his throat, and the tingling in his eyes only made him want to hate himself more. Weak. So weak. The emptiness began to fill with the almost even more unbearable cocktail of shame, guilt, sadness, longing... and he couldn't breathe. He was suffocating within the pool of his own emotions, and underneath his eyelashes liquid began to seep out. His lips trembled, and Russia bit down hard, hard enough to draw blood.
No. He mustn't. Not again.
What would Soviet say if he could see him now, on the verge of tears, shaking under the sheer force of his tumbling emotions and ready to do what he was taught never to perform? Would he delight in the torment that he caused me? Or would he keep his distance, glaring pensively, and carefully conducting his next move from afar, like so many times before? His hand had the burning itch again, and he clenched it tight close, his blunt fingernails digging into his hard, tender flesh. Soviet would be ashamed, and he couldhear his voice, disappointed, humiliated and disgusted at having such a weakling as a brother stating "Happiness was your downfall."
The unheard accusation haunted him.
He couldn't take it anymore.
Each day he was constantly reminded of his mishap. Every night he was plagued by dreams, memories, flash backs and made up creations of similar scenarios. There was no escape, he had no way out. Two years... two years of self-torture, of overpowering agony, of remembrance... any normal man would have cracked under the pressure and have lost themselves by now, yet Russia wasn't any ordinary man. He was a nation. He was a country. He was a monster... and he was a murderer.
And yet, was it really, he who tormented the Baltics? Was it him who ravaged the helpless lands of the weaker nations, waiting to strip their freedom away? He had tried to convince them that it wasn't him who did the deeds; that it was his brother Soviet Union. But just as times before, they saw him in me, and fearfully, kept their distance.
How could his innocent younger sister stand to worship him the way that she did? Such admiration was easily mistaken for adoration of her elder brother. How could his mother, the late Kievan Rus, dare to still smile down at him with he caring love in her eyes? How could his friends – no, his acquaintances – still greet Russia with the same warmth and pride in them voices? How could they bare to even visit him anymore, concern and worry painted on the edge of their smiles? He destroyed the most important person in this World to them. He didn't listen. He had laughed, /laughed/, at the forthcoming danger until realization and rationality kicked him, screaming in his face, but by then it was too late; a few crucial seconds, but ones that cost him everything... and his traitorous mind reminded him of that fact persistently.
Russia found himself snorting.
They called his one-track mind "obsessive thoughts." And when he awoke during the night, screaming with tears glazing his face, somebody held him down. He was stronger than they were, physically... but emotionally, he was drained, and frail. It slowly sapped at his energy until he could manage no more than the rare nod at his family and friends when they wasted some of their precious time to visit him. It had decreased, recently, and soon Russia was left in his room, staring at the bare ceiling, staring into the eyes of his brother... before they vanished with a flash of light. His own cry echoed in his head.
They got people in to try to talk to him. They tried to help. They tried to ease his whirlwind of emotions.
He wanted to blow them up.
What could they understand? What could they do to help somebody as evil as him?
There was no point in talking to them.
His "brother's friends" and his sisters attempted to do what the professionals could not; it was just as pointless. They wouldn't understand either. Nobody could. Nobody would. How might they when he did not?
All he knew was that there was endless pain... endless pain, unimaginable feelings and they tumbled into a black hole of numb. The
irony didn't amuse him. Nothing did. He couldn't smile. He couldn't laugh. Yet he could cry. Sometimes he didn't even realize. It was only when Ukraine's voice came through the intercom, full of concern, did he realize that his eyes were streaming, his chest was heaving, and sobs replaced his unsaid begs of "help me".
Help. Help. Help.
Help me forget.
Help me escape.
Help me feel normal.
Help me make it stop.
Help me make him go away!
He could feel him now, touching him. He could smell him. He could feel the warmth of his heavy hand, and the bruises that it was causing. He could feel sharp nails digging into his flesh. At the beginning, it would come and go... yet as time passed, as the two long years passed, it didn't. It grew heavier, and heavier. It would leave for seconds before returning and the sensation of his collar bone being crushed made him wince. Often the pain blinded him and he would scream into the night, thrashing and trying to ease the hand off, begging and pleading, apologizing over and over as tears spilled from his panicked and glazed eyes.
More than once, America had to go into the room and secure Russia down as he tried to calm him with light pictures of sunflowers. He'd yell over Russia's bellows, he'd get bruised by his flying fists, but these fits only lasted a few tense dangerous minutes. Afterwards, the nation would be in a ball, trembling, muttering under his breath as a robotic caretaker injected his dotted arm with a strong sedative.
With the slightest of trembles, Russia raised his hand and lightly touched the one that was on his shoulder. It was starting to become painful, yet it could never rival the guilt settled deep within his very soul. Tears had damped his face, and blood dribbled down his chin from his abused lip. He looked pathetic. He acted pathetic.
No wonder Soviet hated him.
No wonder everybody had locked him up.
They visited him, yes; quite often, in fact. But it didn't change the fact that he was locked within a specially built padded room conjoining with the sanctuary room, with cameras watching him and a robot which injected him when he felt a little more emotional than normal. It was stupid. He didn't belong here. He wasn't crazy. He was guilty. He was lonely. He was full of self-loathing, and maybe he had done a few stupid things in the past years... but that didn't give his family and their friends the right to lock him up!
Yet maybe it did. It was his own prison. He was being punished for being a murderer. He knew Soviet personally saw to that and his friends, deep down, did too.
He didn't know what to think or believe anymore.
All he knew was that there was pain. There was emptiness. There was The Hand... Soviet... and the painful release that had been taken away from him.
Except...
Slowly and deliberately, making sure that he was facing the camera, Russia slowly reached upwards to his scarf. His joints creaked from lack of use, but soon the scarf was stretching and pulsating in rhythm with his heart. It illuminated his flat eyes, and his pale gaunt face. All he had to do was wrap it around himself and it would all be over. It would all be over. There would be nothing. He would be sent to nothingness after his death, due to suicide. No meadow of bright sunflowers. No hell. Just nothingness. It would almost be like what things were now; dreary, dull, lifeless... only nobody would be able to stop him should he want to self-destruct.
Yet it wouldn't happen.
Russia could hear America approaching his 'special room', no doubt preparing to hold Russia down to prevent a suicide attempt. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Nobody would leave him alone; his mother, his sisters, his father's friends, his mind, his thoughts... He wanted his solitude. He wanted his freedom. He wanted his control. He didn't want isolation. He didn't want to be stared at like a zoo animal. He didn't want pretense, nor fake smiles and promises that he would soon be okay.
Those damn psychiatrists and therapists knew nothing.
Nobody did.
Not even himself.
The door to his secure room opened, and Russia could hear America approaching. He kept his eyes locked on the scarf; would he dare...?
"Okay, Ivan. Put that away."
Why should he? Yet he obliged. "Can I go yet?" He asked monotonously.
"Not until you're well." America said. Russia stared back, unblinking, unmoving, and after a few tense moments America turned his back on the nation and swiftly walked back out, disappearing from view. He, along with everybody else, didn't know what to do or how to act around the broken nation; that was plainly obvious.
Russia knew the real reason he left: he didn't want Russia to see him cry. Even after all the wars, periods of mockery and self-proclaimed "hero phrases", America still had cared for him after all these years.
Smiling for only a brief moment, Russia wondered if someone did care. Even after his diagnosis of "insanity", they still came to him, checking if his "healing" would begin.
He chuckled- why would he need healing for a crime he did not commit? He chuckled bitterly, did they still not see Soviet? Did they still blame him for crimes he did not commit? For being framed by someone with the same face?
The hand on his shoulder tightened mockingly, and Russia gripped at it hard with a snarl. Of course, Soviet would still taunt him; it was all he had been doing since his Fall.
Maybe one day they will know the truth about Soviet. Russia was not Soviet, but only a prisoner trapped by him, just as the Soviet countries were.
Perhaps one day they will join together and testify that he was right all along. Until that day, they will all join me da?
*A/N: *
Hello. Welcome to my new story, Breaking Point! In this story, I highlight an asylum-placed Russia, who believes in quite conflicting views. In this story, he believes that he was not Soviet Union, but rather that Soviet Union is his own personification and separate from the personification of The Russian Federation.
Russia is a complex character to write about and it is no easy feat to tackle.My head cannon is that Soviet was an actual personification, who manifested himself as Russia, framing him for the crimes he had committed. When Soviet 'died', 'Russia's mental state spiraled downward.
When he tried to tell the other countries that Soviet was not him, they did not believe him, and instead placed him into an asylum, fearing he would be a danger to himself and the other countries.
As the story progresses, we truly peak into the mental state of Russia.
I invite you to read my story and hopefully look into Russia's mindset. Have a good evening!
~Enchanting Grace