Author's Notes: So this is a short one shot I did on a Sad Russia for feels. I wrote another Russia one before this one and intended to post it, but when I wrote it, it took a different turn than what I had originally intended. This is my original idea brought to life. Enjoy and review!
He stood in the middle of a wasteland of white, Siberia. His tan coat was warm and so was his scarf, but he still felt cold. It was an inside kind of cold, like snow flowed through his veins instead of blood. As Ivan looked around, all he saw was barren tundra, not even a wind to stir it up. Boring.
Suddenly his interest was piqued slightly when the snow started to swirl around him like a cyclone. The flakes danced in the air, and the gust blew bitter and brisk. A blizzard was starting, nothing new. But why was he here? He should be inside, at home, sitting by a firs or something warm. But then again, this WAS his home. And he was never warm.
As he stood there, he began to question. Why was it always so cold? Sure, summer came, but not for long. Why did he have so much land, but most of it was Arctic and wasteland? The snow inside turned to ice. Why was his family so harsh? Belarus was scary and Ukraine never stayed. Why was everyone afraid of him? Did they only see the dark side and the bad people, like Stalin and the time when he was the Soviet Union? Was it because he was ruled by a Mongol king, a barbarian? The ice inside was so frigid it burned, and there was nothing he could do. Russia wrapped his arms around his body, retreating inward to try and warm himself. His body was warm… what about his soul? A gust of wind knocked him to his knees and the snow seeped through to his legs. Or was it the inside cold spreading from his heart? He wasn't sure anymore.
Ivan lifted his head to look around, and saw the wind dance and twirl, circumnavigating him. The sight was beautiful to behold in its own way, but that didn't lift his spirits at all. As he followed the snowflakes, he reached out with his numb, gloved fingers to chase them; ultimately coming to the realization of how futile his attempt was at capturing beauty. The hands fell and brushed the ground, and the Russian hung his head. There was nothing to it; he was never going to be warm, or happy, or kind, or bright, or any nice thing that existed on planet Earth. As the pain inside doubled and he clutched his heart, the source of it all, the wind howled mournfully. It seemed to reflect what he felt without him uttering a sound; it screamed for him. This cold was sure to drive him to insanity and not one could save him. How can you teach someone to be happy? How can you warm a soul like a glacier and melt a heart of titanium? No, rescue was an improbability an impossible.
Ivan opened his eyes as he looked out at the world one more time before giving in to the cold and the madness. There he saw a mirage of brightness: sunshine and color, a whole field of it. The color was yellow, of all things, and there were sunflowers. So nice… Driven and compelled by the hopeful sight, he struggled to stand and run towards it, eventually getting knocked down by the wind. As he landed hard on the unforgiving ground, the mirage faded and he realized it was just that: a phantom, a ghost of happiness.
He curled into a ball where he lay, still trying to exterminate the cold. Would he ever be rid of its burning, icy presence? Or would he simply retreat into the madness like the blizzard around him, the insanity of thought and grief and darkness? Would he become the definition of cruelty again or worse, trying to quell the storm within?
He had no answers to give, and no answers came besides the sobbing wind that became his voice.
End of chapter notes: I saved this little note for the end, cuz I try not to type huge Author's Notes. You came for the story, not me! But just so you know, this is not exactly a physical experience he's having. It's not a dream either. It more a metaphorical thing, a symbolic event that represents his emotions. Does that clarify things? :)