Thursday, October 24th, 1991 : 62 days until Christmas
"You can say anything you want, or nothing at all, it's up to you and what you're comfortable with." Canada assures me. I look down at my lap, pulling the jacket I have on closer to me. "Are you cold?"
"Hm?" I ask, looking up at him.
"I asked if you were cold. . . I can't tell if it is or not, I can turn the heat on for you?"
"Uh, no, I'll be fine," I lie, "just thinking about what I could say."
"Alright. Take your time."
I look back down at the floor. Where do I even start? The beginning? The end?
I lose concentration and stare at the hardwood floor.
Canada's house is a small log cabin, buried away in the Canadian wilderness. It's peaceful and quiet, but also isolated and eerie. If I tried to run away I'd get lost in the thick trees. . . No one would be able to hear me if I screamed for help, the phones work horribly, and the road to get here is not paved. Just how Russia likes it.
"I uh. . . Tried to run away once," I begin, looking back up at Canada, "some time in 1958. I was planning the escape for a few months and finally, one day, the stars aligned and I ran for it. . . I had so much adrenaline, so much panic running through my veins that I wasn't paying enough attention to my surroundings and hardly a kilometer away from the house I stepped into a bear trap. It broke my leg, cut up my skin. . ." I trail off, remembering my startled gasp, the brutal fall to the forest floor, my hand over my mouth to keep myself silent. I looked around desperately, fruitlessly searching for a way to free myself. There was so much blood and the pain was mind numbing, I could hardly move let alone think. Staggered breaths was all I could manage as I attempted to pull the jaws of the bear trap off my leg. I only succeeded in cutting my fingers.
In my panicked haste, I didn't notice the footsteps coming near me, and before I knew it Russia was standing over me, looking down with disappointment.
"I see you found the little trap I laid." He said while bending down and running a hand across my thigh, a bit above where the trap had it's jaws. I flinched away, unable to do anything. "The punishment you are going to receive for trying to run away is going to make this trap," he continued as he placed a hand on the trap and moved it back and forth for emphasis, cutting me deeper, "feel like an orgasm."
"Gilbert? Are you alright?" Canada's voice breaks through my flashback and I look up at him.
"Yeah. . . Sorry. . . I, uh, was ratted out. It was Poland. I guess the seeds I sowed during the 1940s caught up to me at that moment. He caught wind of what I was planning and told Russia everything. I was doomed from the start."
Canada says nothing, does nothing but look at me. I squirm a bit under his gaze and look down. He has an aura about him that reminds me so much of Russia it's uncanny. What is he thinking? Is he disappointed? I worry at the thought of disappointing him. If the last sixty years have taught me anything, it was to please.
"I'm sorry." He says, catching me off guard.
"What?"
"I know sorry means nothing to you right now, but I want you to know I am genuinely sorry for what you've gone through. In hindsight it is easy to see that we should have done something more for those stuck behind the iron curtain. I know it means nothing, but I wanted to say something."
". . . I don't feel any animosity toward you or the other western nations. You're helping me now and I appreciate that, more than I can ever put into words."
He smiles lightly, sparking a warm sensation to travel down my spine. I cast my eyes away from him, fighting the blush that so desperately wants to mark my face.
"I'm going to make some tea, it should help warm you." He says, standing up from the small couch and heading toward the kitchen.
I take a deep breath, composing myself and collecting my thoughts.
October 25th, 1991
Rough rope chaffs my wrists and ankles at my repeated attempts to move. The hard wooden chair is particularly uncomfortable, especially if one sits in it for a few hours on end. I look slightly to my left and see Raivis, standing next to me, eyes wide with fear. He has been forced to stand still for almost six hours now, any slight movement or little sway earning him a small punishment. Russia sits before us now, silently watching him struggle.
The longer Russia is in the room, the more Raivis shakes. Ultimately, the long silence is broken.
"Raivis." Russia says softly.
"Yes, s-s-sir?" He manages a weak reply.
"What has you so nervous, little mouse."
"I made a mistake."
"You did. Do you know what happens to those who make mistakes?" Russia asks.
"Th-they get punished." Raivis whimpers, tears threatening his composure.
"Exactly. . . And you, Gilbert, were supposed to be watching him. With how anal you are about perfection, I would have never expected something like this to happen under your watch."
"I'm sorry, -" I try.
"You will be." Russia interrupts, "I lost a lot of supplies do to your fuck-up. I can have both of you sent away as enemies of the state." He stands up and walks over to Raivis, standing directly in front of him. He hooks a gloved hand under the poor boy's chin and forces him to look up. "Don't think for a second they'd go easy on you because you appear to be fourteen Raivis. They will treat you as your real age, forty."
Latvia is doing his best not to cry as his body trembles like a brittle leaf in autumn.
"I-I'm so sorry."
"Shh, shh, I know sweetheart, I know. But sorry won't bring back those shipments. You have to learn to take what's due to you like a man." Russia poorly reassures. "Your punishment, Gilbert, will be to watch him. Like you were supposed to do in the first place." He takes Raivis' arm in a vice grip and leads him to the desk that sits before us. The poor boy looks at me, fear and anguish clouding those light blue eyes that remind me too much of Germany. I'd do anything to protect the owners of both those eyes.
"Please let him be. You can do whatever you want to me, just leave him alone." I say.
"Aww, that's what you said when I had Germany at my hands. . . Does he remind you of him? Cute little blond with watery blue eyes. . . I see it. . . But you can't save this one, Gilbert."
Russia sits in the office chair then motions for Raivis to come closer. He takes a hesitant step toward Russia who grabs his arm and pulls him into his lap. Raivis is shaking something fierce as he sits in Russia's lap, facing me.
Russia laces a hand in his hair and roughly pulls his head back.
"Now, I've been told," Russia begins, "that your neck is tortuously sensitive, is that correct?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"How do you know that?"
"It's been touched before. . . Sir."
"Hm. Dirty little slut, whoring yourself out to the others?"
I furrow my eyebrows at his question. He should not be speaking to Latvia in this manner and he knows that. Sure, the boy has been alive for forty years, but for all intents and purposes should be treated like a preteen. Pulling on the rope does me no good, and nothing is close enough to me to help me escape. I can't help Latvia.
"N-no I've never done anything like that, sir, I found out by accident, please. . ." Latvia tries.
"Let's see about that." Russia comments before biting Latvia's neck, eliciting a high gasp from him. I look down, unable to watch.
"You don't like what you see? Would you rather something else?" Russia asks while standing, causing Latvia to stand as well. He then, without warning, puts his hand on Latvia's upper back and pushes him onto the desk in front of them harshly. He then places a hand on either side of the poor nation, pressing himself against the others backside.
"Don't." I say.
"You know what would be particularly cruel? If I made you do this to him." He looks down at Latvia. "Would you rather that, little mouse? Am I too big for you?" He teases.
"Russia, I'm sorry. Please, I will never make a mistake again, this is my fault not his. Please." I beg.
"Hmm." Russia feigns like he is deep in thought while grabbing Latvia's hair and pulling him upright again. "How about this. . . I'll stop if you give me a good reason." He then snakes his arm across Raivis' chest up to his neck, simultaneously choking him and pressing him closer to him.
Raivis's eyes widen as his ability to breathe is taken from him.
"You shouldn't hurt him because he had nothing to with it, it was all me. He is just a kid he should be spared from this kind of torture. Please, you can do anything to me, just leave him alone." I say rather quickly, but Russia does not relent. Raivis' mouth falls open as he tries desperately to breathe.
"You better hurry, he's looking a bit blue." Russia practically laughs. I watch as Raivis' face turns blue, eyes fluttering closed. I panic.
"Because there is a better way to punish him." I blurt out.
Russia lifts an eyebrow then releases his grip on Latvia's neck, causing him to gasp and cough violently.
"A better punishment than choking him to death? Praytell."
"Umm. . . You could. . . Have him watch my punishment instead." I offer.
"You think that is worse than death?"
". . . Yes."
"Lair. But I'll humor you." Russia says while making Raivis sit in the office chair. He walks over to me and runs a hand through my hair. "You've always been so noble."
He walks behind me and out of view for a couple of seconds before standing directly behind me. I have no idea what he's planning, my heart races in anticipation. I look up and meet Latvia's gaze. I wish I could protect him from all this, take him to a better place. . . A better time.
Russia's hand roughly grips my hair and pulls my head back.
"I hope he's worth it." He whispers before something is dragged across the front of my throat harshly. At first I'm unsure of what happened until I notice the traumatized look on Latvia's face. Something warm pools in my lap and cascades down my chest and stomach. I attempt to breathe in but choke, coughing up blood. I try gasping for air but that drowns me quicker and in a matter of a few minutes I've stilled completely, staring up at the ceiling, vision turning black.
"Raivis, come. I'll put you to bed."
I remember trying to speak. Scream. Anything. But I had already died. . . I tried in vain to protect Raivis from what Russia so desperately wanted to do to him.
My eyes fly open and I gasp for air, gripping my throat.
"Woah, woah, woah, it's okay. You're okay." Canada reassures, "can I touch you?"
I look around the room, confused.
"What is this, where am I?" I ask.
"You're in Canada, recovering. You just had another attack."
I stare down at the bed I'm sitting in, slowly remembering the past few weeks. My breathing slowly calms and my heart slows down. That's right. I'm safe here.
"Yes, you can touch me." I answer. He gently places his right hand on my arm and affectionately squeezes my bicep.
"If you'd like I can stay here with you until morning." He offers.
"You don't have to. . .But. . . I'd like to talk for a while at least, if that's alright." I ask.
"That is fine."
"Tell me something about you." I suggest, wanting to take my mind of the memory I was forced to relive.
"Me? What do you, what do you want to know?" He stutters out.
"Anything, really. What's your favorite color?"
My question causes him to laugh, showing off his photogenic smile.
"Um, if I had to choose it would be red."
"Good choice. What about animal?"
"Polar bear, hands down."
"I should have known." I laugh.
His hand slides down my arm and rests on my hand. We make eye contact and, feeling a little bit like my old self, I take this rare moment and connect our lips. He pulls back immediately, eyes wide. Shit.
"I, I'm sorry. I don't think it's appropriate, I don't want to take advantage of you. Our relationship should remain as professional as possible." He says rather quickly.
"If you think that is best, I'll respect your wishes, but you wouldn't be taking advantage of me. I know my mind isn't always with me, and I know I can lose sense of reality but I have all my faculties about me at the moment and I am choosing this. Have you forgotten 1947?"
He looks down, biting his lower lip softly.
"I have not," he begins, "but that was highly inappropriate as well. You were, I was. . . Fraternizing with the enemy quite literally, if any of the other allies found out about it I would have been. . ." He trails off.
"So you regret it?" I ask softly. His eyes find mine again.
"No. . ." He answers, equally as soft.
I reach a hand up to his cheek and try kissing him again. He doesn't pull away, but rather accepts me, parting his lips and letting me explore inside. The feeling is indescribable, which is unusual, normally I'm amazing with my words.
He begins to sink down on the bed lying on his side. I follow and mirror his position.
We lie on the bed on our sides, facing each other, lips never leaving the others. I pull him closer to me so that our bodies are flush. He pulls away almost immediately after I do that.
"We should call it a night." He whispers.
"Will you stay?" I ask.
". . . yes."
October 26th, 1991
Тhe feeling of waking up in someone's warm embrace is wonderful. It feels so normal. Like I can pretend that the last sixty years never happened, and this is just a few days after that night in 1947. How much simpler would life be if I had never been sentenced to death for crimes against humanity? Never been stuck behind the dreaded iron wall, pushed against the soviet bloc with nations who despised me and wanted to see me suffer?
If only a few days after the treaties and trials I flew to Canada right into his embrace, to heal and rebuild after the war. . . What a completely different life I would have.
Canada stirs and wakes up. The time for dreaming and hoping is over. It's time to face reality.
"How are you feeling?" He asks.
"Not bad." I answer simply.
He sits up in the bed and I watch him move about the small room.
"It's been about twenty days since Germany contacted me to help your health improve, so I'd like to take some measurements from you and compare them to the first day."
I nod in response, listening to the soothing melody of his voice. Eventually he turns to face me, expectantly.
"Oh, okay." I say while getting out of the bed.
Same day, two hours later
Sitting in the cold living room once more, silence hangs between us as he looks over his notes. Occasionally, the silence will be interrupted by the sound of a pencil scratching on paper, or by a sigh from me. A clock in the background clicks the seconds away faintly and I fold my arms in an attempt to stop my shivering. It's incredibly cold.
I look up at him and notice he looks rather content, wearing only a tee shirt and jeans, no goose bumps in sight.
"How are you not cold?" I ask, causing him to look up at me.
"Have you ever heard of Nunavut?" He answers simply.
"Touche. . . but Russia has Siberia and he is constantly cold."
"Yes, but isn't that because he made some sort of pact with nature?"
". . . Touche." I say again, causing him to laugh a bit. I happen to make eye contact with him and my heart flutters. A blush begins to heat up my cheeks and he runs a hand through his hair.
"So, uh, physically you are getting better much quicker than I thought you would. You've been fever free for over ninety-six hours and have gained," he looks down at his clipboard then back up, "ten pounds. I'm impressed."
The thought of pleasing him sparks a warm feeling to run through my stomach, and when I look up into those lavender eyes all I see is Russia. That vacant, emotionless stare, plotting, thinking, all powerful. In their search to help me, did Germany and Italy invite another evil into my life? Someone else who could be just as brutal as Russia?
He has that same stare.
"Are you alright?" He asks. I'm having trouble seeing Canada and not Russia. The lines between them are blurring. Snow is falling outside, the house is cold, we are surrounded by kilometers of forest, am I sure I've left Novgorod? Have the past twenty days been some sick fever dream, and now I'm waking up to my real life. The real reality. Where the wall is still up and I'm still Russia's secret pet. Where the others abuse me and treat me like the embodiment of Nazi Germany.
How long must I endure this? When will my sentence end?. . . I was given death, wasn't I? Is this Hell? My eternal punishment, cursed to forever feel this pain, to forever be hurt and used, humiliated and broken.
I can't breathe. Not even death can bring me relief, I'll just come right back, wake up again to keep feeling, keep living. Isn't seven hundred and ninety years enough? I've lived enough for ten people, I don't know how much I can keep going on. But I have no choice, it isn't my choice to stay on this Earth, I have no say. Who knows when my life will truly end, and if it has and I'm in Hell, I'll never break this eternal loop of suffering and anguish. I will still wake up every day, alive or in Hell, to suffer on forever. No end. Another day after the other. Eternally.
My hand comes to my chest and I look down at the ground, unable to look anywhere else. Pain erupts from my chest and my lungs refuse to fill up with enough air.
"Don't touch me." I say to Canada? Who has just approached me. He nods and kneels down in front of me.
I feel like I'm being pulled away from reality, every single thought I have is being sucked from me as my consciousness is whisked away somewhere.