The Russian entered the empty, silent house. His eyes scanned the hall, desperately searching for a sing of life. Since the fall of the soviet union, the only occasional visits he would get were his sisters, and they only visited him once a year. Because of that, the blonde man was lonely. His eyes, normally bright and happy, were now dark and tired, and the only thing that would make him happy would be the potted sunflower his sister Katyusha brought him last summer. It was long faded, but he kept it, hoping childishly that it would come back to life one day. But deep down, he knew it wouldn't. Just like everything else, the sunflower died, even if Ivan took the greatest care of it. In fact, he kept it, dry corpse lying in brown dirt, facing the window in his room, because it was the only company he had. The lonely man had grownt to consider the sunflower a friend, and he often talked to it, his mind slowly falling into a dark, comforting insanity, the one everybody feared.
As he entered the living room, he felt the usual sharp, almost breath taking pain he always felt in his chest when he was thinking about how alone he was, about all the lies everybody told him each days to keep him happy. He quickly reached for a vodka bottle in the cabinet to erase the thoughts, not wanting to spend the night crying like he did last week. He drank vodka until he felt a bit dizzy, and threw the last one on the floor, not caring about the ruined carpet soaked with alcohol. He then screamed, screamed like he never did before, a loud scream, full of pain and despair. He bursted into tears, the cold liquid falling down his pale cheeks like mini waterfalls. The arctic nation's sobs felt like they would never stop, falling on the already soaked old carpet at his feet. After what seemed like hours, he stopped, catching his breath. He didn't feel better, but what could he do about it? He looked at the empty room, the old radio he used to listen to while the Baltics were cleaning, the fireplace, no longer in use, the comfortable couch facing him... all this was useless now. He was alone, so he never really listened to the radio anymore, or even sat on the couch, the empty place beside him would remind him that he was hated by everyone.
He stood up, ignoring the dizziness, and walked to his room, not caring about not eating anything. Why would he care? He was depressed, and food was the last thing he worried about. He dumped his coat and boots on the floor of his room and sat on the bed. He thought, for the, what, 10th time? about killing himself. It would be so easy, so delivering... but he knew he couldn't. He would eventually come back to life, being a country, and would only hurt his people and piss off his boss. He sighed, and then laid down on his bed, looking at the dead sunflower. The poor thing... he gently caressed the dry leaf, smiling saddly. He was just like this sunflower, dead, but still standing, waiting for a new life.
He fell asleep, hugging his pillow, face pale and peaceful, looking almost dead in his bed, a faded country, exhausted.