I peeled open my eyes and saw the tiles stretching out sideways from where they were glued to my cheek. Without having to move, I could peer ahead and see the same puddle of blood that dominated the floor since before I had blacked out. Cloth shifted and I noticed now that there was a blanket over me, which I immediately fought off to sit up. I needed to see the rest of the kitchen, to clarify what was missing and what was remaining; however, in my frantic movement, I gasped before squeaking at the pain I had fired up in my shoulder and chest.
In the adrenaline of the battle with America, I had not minded how all of my injuries had torn open anew. I was rocked by the agony now, and although the bleeding was slow, I could feel the wide mouths of the cuts that had split from the locking scabs. The pulsing pain did not stop me from scanning my surroundings, but nothing that I was seeking was there. Russia was gone, America as well, and both France and Britain had vanished. I had been left alone in the filthy kitchen, and filthy myself after holding Russia in the state that I had last seen him.
There were so many questions and concerns that I had. There was one answer I was sure of, however. Russia was dead. I had seen that with my own eyes, but what I needed to know was what had happened how much time had passed.
Where's Russia? Is America cured now? The potion-
When I raised myself up, I saw that the container was no longer on the counter. My eyes zipped to the side and I saw the curved and drying smears of a bloodied hand print around the handle of the fridge. I avoided the blood and opened it, confirming that Britain had quickly thrown the container into my fridge this time, likely from haste. The scarlet liquid lay in a transparent drawer, and now it was only half-filled.
So it had been true. He had produced a double amount, and half of it was already used. Recognizing the stranger of the silence around me, I assumed that everything had been successfully completed.
America is back… Where is he then? Could he really look like he did before?
Flashing memories of the decayed muscles and gnashing skull returned to me. The empty eyes hovered in my mind's eye while a rasping moan echoed behind it. With a gasp, I fell back and pressed into the edge of the counter. I clenched at my fresh injuries then groaned, realizing how gingerly I needed to treat my body now.
I glanced at the digital clock on the oven. Only an hour had passed, but I could not be late. I would find America soon, but I had made a promise to Russia to be there when he awakened. I assumed that Russia was in America's basement, so I departed the kitchen and followed the drops and smears of blood into the living room. Finally, I observed the door that hung open and on an angle. That had been my doing, and my fault that America had easily dashed onto my side without ruckus.
I froze for a moment, staring at the chipped wood. I had struck this door in my panic, but had I damaged the basement door too, when I sprinted to stop the chainsaw? I skittered through to the other side and rushed to the basement. At the door, I confirmed my terror. It was hardly noticeable, but the hole that kept the locking piece of the door had been destroyed, and now it was a gaping wound that let the door swing open easily. The lock was still stuck out, but the door was wide open.
The light was off. No one was down here yet with Russia, but my ears could now pick up on sounds emanating from elsewhere. There came a gurgling from a tub elsewhere and then some muffled words near me. Britain's voice was in a room by me, meaning that the distant tub was France, who was doing to Russia what I had once done for America.
After having had seen these two doors and understanding the role I had played, my entire being was clenched with guilt. None of this would have happened if I had not broken these doors in my desperation. If I hadn't stopped Britain and France from doing what was best, Russia would be alive. If I had just held onto America tighter on top of that cliff, both of them would be alive. The pain over my chest and shoulder nagged at me, as though grinning and exclaiming that I deserved this, and so much more than this.
Everything is my fault…
A ball formed in my throat, but I hurried to where France was. The tears were already here, streaking down my face, but I still had to fulfill my promise. It was all I could do now, to soften the pain of all that I had caused. From now on, I would have to be passive. I was good at that, so what had happened? As I ran to America's bathroom, I wondered if the power of being America had gotten to me. I had stood up against Britain too many times, but he had always been prepared. Even lying and hiding information, he had never once failed me or anyone. Like a miracle, he had twirled his fingers and America was back.
I am the failure. I will not argue again. They can do whatever they want now... I am done with causing trouble and making everything worse!
My face was a mess by the time I swung open the bathroom door. My eyes were red, my cheeks soaked, and my skin and hair were matted with drying blood. France glanced back, although I was sure that he already knew who was there. His face twisted in sympathy at the sight of me, his eyes moving away from Russia's unresponsive body to check over me.
"Canada…" he murmured. He did not know what to say, and I was equally clueless.
I came closer, but he put out his hand. France did not want me to see him, but it was too late. Russia was laid back in the tub, his head tossed over and torn face in full sight. One half was nearly perfect; his eye was closed as though he was resting peacefully. The other half was a different story, however, where he had no eyelid to cover the hollow socket and no skin to hide the inner workings of his cheek. Because of his lack of lips, he was all teeth. Russia had not rotted yet, but his face already resembled a grinning skull.
I shot back as though I had stepped over a mouse trap. Shuddering in fear instead of sorrow, I looked away and tried to calm myself. So early, and already I could imagine how Russia would look in a week. Another transformation was coming when I had never wanted to see someone rot away again.
France got up and tried to console me. His hands were clean like pearls from the hot water, but he was ready to dirty them on my clothes when he tried to hold me. I moved back, but he moved closer. There was no escape, which stressed me further until I hit the door frame and had nothing else to do but collapse against him, cracking in half and sobbing in his arms.
He let me go for a minute, before whispering, "Everything will be okay…"
"I'm s-sorry," I gasped. "Oh… I-I-I'm so s-sorry…"
"This isn't your fault," he murmured.
I wanted to scream out everything that I had thought of, everything that proved that I had caused these horrible events, but my throat allowed no more words. I pushed him away and shook my head roughly, though he grabbed me and tried to stare into my eyes.
"This was America's fault," France stated in an attempt to drive in the point. "His idiocy caused all of this! Even if you made mistakes, all of this happened because of America!"
My bottom lip trembled, and I refused to stop crying.
"This"- France indicated Russia without either of us looking at him- "might have happened no matter what you did!"
No. I formed the words with my mouth, unable to voice it clearly, and instead only produced incomprehensible hisses. Not if I had let you chop up America.
I shook my head over and over again. France tried to hold me as I pushed away, but I yanked myself free. It wasn't right that he was comforting me, the guilty one. Besides, Russia was more important. With another disquieted glance at him, I noticed the stitches that had already been laced to seal up his chest. The shape of him was not quite right, though. The ribs had been broken, shifted, or removed, so there were lumps and dips in all the wrong places. It was easier to view without the shining organs and blood coloured boldly like a painting, but his skin seemed so pale. I was caught wondering if it was always so pale or if there was already a difference.
France stepped in front of me. "I will take care of him, Canada… You should clean yourself up."
"I… I need to be there f-for him," I sniffed.
"It won't take you long. It is better if you don't look at him until I am done…"
France pushed me back, and since I had grown so weak and complacent, I bent to his will. There would be no more fighting. He closed the door carefully, separating my face from his weary one, then I dragged myself away. As I headed to my bathroom, I heard Britain again as he was still speaking. I paused and leaned toward the closed door of America's bedroom, but I did not hear America talking.
He must have been in there, however. Who else would Britain be talking to? My hand worked on its own, grasping the doorknob and trying to turn it.
Locked.
Britain had either seen the knob move or had heard me, maybe both. He halted his dialogue and called back, "Not now, Canada!"
"Wh-what are you doing?" I pawed vainly at the door. "Is America-"
"America's fine," he answered. "I'm just… explaining everything to him."
Finally, the confirmation. America- he was back just like that. I had fallen into a state like sleeping, and had woken up to a reality that was like a dream. After so much time had passed, it just felt surreal that he could be whole again when I had just seen the savage, skeletal creature that he had become.
"America!" I cried through the wood. "America?"
Britain whispered something. I waited. I waited so long for the voice of my living brother, to know that one nightmare was at least over. And I did hear him, but it was not like the America that I was used to. The voice was raked with tears although it tried not to be.
"Hey… Canada…." he murmured. "I'm back…"
I gasped and frantically tried the doorknob again. "America! Is that- America!"
No one unlocked the door and instead, Britain sighed, "Give us a bit, Canada… then you can see him."
I could not understand the refusal. I did not care if America was under stress and upset now or if I had to listen to everything horrible that had happened again. I wanted to sit with him despite it all, just to see and to touch in order to confirm. But then, I remembered my soiled clothes. France had told me to clean myself up, then I was supposed to be there for Russia. On a different point of view, it wasn't best to try to hug America in the state that I was now.
I hung by the door in indecision until these thoughts, then I scampered from the door without answering Britain. I went to shower as France had advised me, but I was forced to pass by the door that I had broken and the trails of blood once more. Further guilt assaulted me. I should never have been so rebellious. Maybe I should not have even tried to get close to Russia, for now I had caused him so much pain. The rash actions and the nice ones alike had brought us to where we were now.
After a troubled shower where I had scrubbed myself clean, I hurried back to America's bathroom. The air felt strange and I knew it was because there was so much silence and yet so much going on. I was torn between two things, but I passed America's bedroom and came back to France in the bathroom. He noticed the lack of lumps under my shirt, where I had not recovered myself with bandages after taking off the old ones. Immediately, he fretted over me, finding the last bundle and wrapping my shoulder. The cut across my chest was left alone, but it was not as bad now as it had looked before.
I had watched Russia while France had tended to me, but his condition had not changed. France, once done nursing me, asked me to find something clean for Russia to wear. When I was back in my room however, I knew that whatever I picked from Russia's suitcase would get ruined in the end. I tried to pick plain clothes that he was hopefully not too attached to. Baggy clothes too, in order to cover his decaying body best from his own eyes.
He would want a scarf. I saw that he did have an extra, but I was sure that it was too special to get destroyed by the stains of rotting juices. Instead, I tributed one of my scarfs, a black winter scarf, and I added it to the general pile. Everything was carried back to France, who was now drying off Russia's still immobile body.
His eye had not opened yet, so he could not stare at me as America had when I had done this for him. When I got to stare at Russia long enough though, his appearance became less terrifying and instead grievous feelings were invoked within me. I didn't want Russia to be still like this, because even when he was sleeping, his chest moved and he reacted to sounds. He should be sleeping now, because it was late, or awake back home had he not come for me. All the circumstances had made him into a victim. I saw a victim now because no matter how far he had gone with his attack on America, he did not deserve this. It was my fault he had attacked America, and my fault that Russia was dead.
We got Russia into his new clothes. Now, we could no longer see the misshapenness of his chest or the stitches, so everything looked better except for his face. That part of him remained sickening to look at.
"Do you have any more bandages?" France murmured. "We can wrap his…"
After a search, I realized that there were no more left since the last time I had bought some. They had all been used on me. I shook my head and whispered, "We'll have to buy more."
"I'll buy them. You stay with Russia."
He got up immediately and left. Alone with Russia, I blurred my eyesight so that I could observe Russia for movements without really focusing on his facial wounds. The minutes were long when I expected something to happen at every new second. I sat on the floor beside where he was leaned against the bathtub, until I bent over and rested my head against his chest. Here, I could feel the bumps like rocks under the sweater. My face wrinkled and I clung to his long sleeve, but his arms hung and did not curl around me.
I moved back and wiped away my tears when I heard France coming. He dropped down with the bandages and began unraveling them, and I shifted back to watch him behind his back. There was some struggle to figure out how it would be done, but he managed to securely cover the clawed part of Russia's face and the trench in his neck. The scarf was readjusted, and then Russia stopped looking dead. Now, he looked injured with the bandages and fresh change of clothes. His hair had dried and was looking soft again, gently lying over his forehead and ear to create an innocent appearance.
"We better take him downstairs," France murmured.
I took him by the legs and France lifted his torso. We marched down the hall and carried him to America's side, carefully stepping down the stairs. The basement had never been cleaned and it was still a mess, so France directed Russia against the wall. We left him there to clean the floor, tackling it with a mop, cloth, and about every cleaner that we thought could apply to our situation. The wooden beam retained a faint stain, but the floor had fared well. We polished even the chains, and not once did I shift my overall gaze from Russia.
He did not stir when we set him in the cleaned zone or when we set him into place to wrap the chains around him. A second and third lock was needed to clip together the broken pieces, then it was done. Russia lay limp against the wood like a sleeping captive, and we were left watching him with held breaths.
"Thank you," I murmured.
He blinked and glanced to me. "For what, Canada?"
"For cleaning…" My eyes caught the floor, beam, chains, and Russia. I thought that France might have just set him in the mess, but he had taken the time to respect him. In a time like this, it presented me with some of the relief that I needed.
"It was the least I could do… I hope he will be okay, Russia… It won't be for so long but waking up like this…" A pained expression crossed his face and I realized that I was not the only one who worried about Russia. Perhaps some might not have felt it before, but now when he had suffered, the caring leaked through.
His words made me imagine what it would be like to sit where Russia was. I would be frightened to know that I was dead and that there was nothing I could do about it. Rotting, encased in the chains… That had been America's experience, but Russia could not talk. His neck had been torn out so he would be unable to express anything.
Unless I can get him to write…
Which wouldn't be allowed because an arm would have to be freed from the chains. I exhaled through my nose and knelt by Russia, then sat down fully and crossed my legs. France mumbled that he would tell Britain that Russia was locked up down here, but as he was leaving, there was a tremor in the eyelid. Russia's eye creaked open and immediately locked onto me.
I hopped over in front of him. I gasped, "Russia!"
The eye stared back and his face remained still. Since his lips were covered, there was an even smaller portion of his face that could transmit his emotions. There was not much he could do, however, as he figured out himself. Based on my time with America though, I assumed that he was conscious and could understand me.
"I'm here," I breathed, touching him by the shoulder. "It's okay."
The eye flitted over degree by degree, looking past me and identifying the basement. I turned back my head to try to see what he saw. I had not noticed until now, but France was still here, frozen and watching us with a parted mouth. We both stared until he broke away, hurrying up the stairs with his news to the others. Russia's eye continued until it fell down, seeing his own confined predicament.
"There's no choice…" I whispered. "But… but you know why."
I hoped he understood, but I could not tell. Russia did not struggle, although I expected that he couldn't even lean himself forward. Russia did not blink as I wiggled closer, but he watched my every movement as I reached for his hair.
"You understand me, right?" I asked like a breeze. "Blink yes?"
Slowly, he dropped down his eyelid and reopened it. I slid my fingers into the hair at the side of his face, pressing along the skull as I stroked it back. When he closed his eye, I knew that he felt content and trusted me. It stayed shut until footsteps pounded down the stairs, skipping steps and frightening me. I wondered what the problem was, but then realized that it was neither Britain nor France. My hand froze and I turned back to see America hopping down to the bottom. The others followed so quietly that it was though only America had come.
My eyes flew open and I yelped, "America-"
There was no hiding the red streaks of his old tears, but he rushed to me and grabbed me. America sat back on the floor and dragged me into a crushing hug, rocking and trying to pet every spot on my back all at once. It was hard to breathe, but I snatched him and gasped when I realized what was happening. I was hugging America, and he was warm and covered in skin. I whimpered his name again, sniffing, and stroking over the hair over his smooth arm. I could hardly believe that the textures under my hand was real. Captivated I remained, as I listened to his next words that came.
"Oh my god, Canada… You are the best brother in the whole world." He accompanied his breathy speech with a squeeze. "Britain just told me a whole bunch of stuff and I have literally no idea what we would have done without you! Man, I'm so, so sorry for everything. I mean, for being an idiot, for grossing you out, and being so scary and- god, I'm sorry that I hurt Britain and I hurt you…! I couldn't think straight at all and… I would have never done that otherwise! Not to anyone..."
America popped up his head and looked at Russia. His rapid words slowed and although I could not see it from my angle, I knew that America's face had creased up in regret.
"Hey, Russia…" He began with an uncomfortable swallow. "I'm so sorry for what happened. I would have never done that to you… You know that, right? I never wanted to hurt you so much… I couldn't control myself. I mean, I even attacked Canada so it's obvious that I was completely messed up in the head."
America had that quietness in his voice that I knew to be sincerity. He thought that Russia had been an accident, and I did not dare correct him. Perhaps I was wrong, that in his right mind he would not hurt Russia. I could not tell what was in his heart, but Russia had always been the one who his undead self had wanted first.
Now though, America did not want to create an enemy out of this. He did not want Russia to think that he had killed him on purpose, selfishly, to come back to life. All Russia did, nevertheless, was stare at him while I was entangled in his arms. I knew that staring was about all that he could do, but I felt nervous suddenly. He might have been furious, but none of us could tell. If he was angry, then that eye would stay open just like it was now. If sad, happy, or understanding, then the eye should close and not be locked on America. That was my logic anyway, so I feared that Russia was upset in some way right now.
America could not help him no matter how sorry he was. My brother rubbed his hands over my back in awkward care and tilted his head back to me. He did not want to let go anytime soon, but I felt that I should be doing more for Russia. It did not seem right to hug him right in front of the one he had just murdered. Yet how could I abandon this embrace, after America had been dead for months? He needed my comfort right now and I could not ignore my own longing to hold him. To have someone recover from a sort of long, horrible sickness was how I felt; I was filled with swooping surges of giddiness and joy that compelled me to shake and nuzzle him.
America was not done with the situation. With Russia there, he felt the weight of responsibility and bowed to it. Still grasping me though, he addressed Russia.
"I don't know how to make it up to you," he exhaled. "Britain said that you were friends with Canada and that you've been really nice to him, even when you thought he was me. I'm trying to give you the biggest thanks that I can, but…" He looked to Britain. "Only he can help you."
"I will leave as soon as I can," Britain informed us. "But I have to go home first. The amount of vacation time I've been taking is unacceptable. It is getting ever the more difficult to leave, and each time requires more lies than the last. I assure you that I will do my best, but I might not be able to get out and search for another week or two at least."
Russia told his superiors that he would be here for a month. I frowned. But if they message him and he doesn't respond, what is going to happen?
France murmured, "Where do you have to go exactly?"
"India."
"Just India?" America imputed.
"Yes but, it is a bit much to ask for. After I've been hoping around Europe and coming here, that is."
I tried to shift in Russia's direction and bring America with me. He didn't seem to notice my effort, so I could only regard Russia with a sympathetic look and murmur, "It's only one place. It'll be over soon."
I felt sure that somehow Britain would pull through and make it. He had done just that until this point, anyway. Russia watched me and although I didn't know what he was thinking, I felt the need to reassure him more. I said, "And I will stay with you so that you're never bored. We can watch movies and maybe I can think of a way to play something with you."
Maybe it was best to change this serious and mournful atmosphere. I finally slipped free from America and wandered to the TV, turning it on while feeling the dampness of the wet floor on my pants. I took the remote back and sat beside Russia, sensing the blunt yet slightly curious looks of the others upon me.
"Russia," I told him, "blink when you want me to stay on a channel."
America sat cross-legged and stared across at me. I shivered in another fresh realization that he was back and just there, sitting so normally. I wondered just how this person had been the same creature that had bit me and Britain. How had it looked, when he had turned back to this? I pondered further, wanting to know how he had felt in those soiled clothes and how his first shower had been.
Since everyone had rushed down here as well, I wondered if Britain had told him everything, such as that two of America's organs were currently Russia's. He must have, for it was the only way that explained how America was back. However, America did not seem alarmed about it, as I would have been to have the organs of someone I killed inside me.
"Are you going to live down here now?" America asked. "Like you did with me?"
"You could stay too," I replied.
"Yeah sure, though technically I've already lived here for months." America shrugged. "We'll bring down some cushions or something. Some blankets and snacks, then we've got a little party."
Something else on Russia's face moved. His eyebrows shifted downward a bit; something had just displeased him.
The food, I realized. Since he knows that it's his stomach in America.
"Maybe no food," I murmured.
This talk was without a doubt irking Russia. Looking at the eye that stared with that wrinkle across the forehead, I knew that the support for Russia needed to start immediately. America crumpled up in guilt, realizing that he had been too excited to help and had forgotten the important details. I could not blame him though, since he probably felt no physical difference inside himself.
"Y-yeah…" Then America tried to recover himself. "But we'll have a great time. I mean, we could probably make Monopoly work, right? Blink for buy property? We'll just move everything for him, roll the dice…"
He was trying so hard to make up for his mishap. I had never seen him awkwardly stumble to make Russia feel better before, but I was impressed that after all Russia had done for me, America dedicated himself to repaying him. Despite the friendly effort, however, Russia's face did not relax.
This won't be good, I thought. Although America could not control himself, Russia doesn't want to forgive him. I don't know what we can do either… I don't know how Russia feels, when America gets to live and he got killed. Could it actually annoy him more to have America around, acting friendly despite what he did?
Since Russia could not talk, maybe time would show how he would feel about America. At least America was willing to be kind to him, as I had wanted him to be once cured. We could stay down here with France, trying to entertain Russia after Britain had gone away.
But then Britain came across an idea.
"I wonder," he said, "if we could find any part of him to reattach. When America's face healed itself, Russia's parts fell off. We might be able to find his throat so that he can talk again."
Russia quickly looked to Britain and his eyebrows lifted slightly more closer to their normal resting position. He was interested. The rest of us perked up, also supportive of the notion. France immediately offered himself up to the task, thus both he and Britain upstairs. America looked conflicted, then decided to stay in the cleaned basement with the two of us.
"So…" America started in their sudden absence. "How exactly did you two become friends?"
I began relaying the same story to him as the one that I had given France before. Britain and France soon came back downstairs, interrupting my story, and we looked across the room to see the Walmart plastic bag hanging from France's wrist. Against the translucent grey, there were dark red splatters on the inside and a heavy weight of crimson at the bottom. They moved past us and sat down directly before Russia, and when the one eye fell down to the bag, I thought that I could have never thought of a more peculiar and equally disturbing moment.
France sighed about having to already take the bandages off, before he uncurled them. When America saw the raw and skeletal side of Russia's face for the first time, he immediately swore loudly. Now he could see the zombie in him, the socket and bone that was unlike the regular face that had just been staring at him. America moved instinctively away, his horror movie experience telling him not to be close to any creature that looked like that. He looked tense, ready to punch that undead face if necessary.
Once Russia was unmasked, he was shown the contents of the bag. We saw what he saw; the bag was full of pieces of flesh. I cupped my twisting gut as they lifted out pieces and tried finding out where they went on him. Some might have been chest pieces, others not. A few pieces had been too stretched to go back properly because at some point, they have been stepped on. They had even found Russia's other eye, but the connecting piece was lost and so it would not work. Leaving it in the socket was also unsettling, so the project was abandoned entirely, and Russia's eye was dropped back into the bag.
Then, the meatiest chunk was exposed to us, which was definitely the throat that America had torn out in one clawed motion. America averted his eyes and looked pale, but I could not help but watch France press it against the cave that revealed Russia's vertebrae from the front. His fingers were mostly in the way, but I saw how the lines disappeared between the gaps. France removed his hand, and the piece did not fall. Russia's neck was mostly whole again, but there were holes in the sides that proved some parts on the inside had been scraped away. Britain and France searched the bag and tried jamming in their puzzle pieces. One thing fit, but the rest was not successful.
They leaned back, and Russia tested out the main addition. His torn mouth moved, but one side of his face still lacked a cheek and he still had no lips. The teeth parted, which only disturbed America further. To him, it was an undead mouth opening to bite flesh. But Russia's mouth formed the shape of the words, although the sound that was produced was incomprehensible. Russia made sounds that I could not put letters to, but at least now he could make sounds. With that, Russia tried to move himself slowly, in other ways, to find a new way to create the old sounds.
The eye went back to glaring now that the moment of interest was over. Straining to get the letters and volume, Russia turned his grotesque visage towards America and hissed, "Leah!"
Consonants were difficult without lips, thus he failed on the v. We understood what he wanted, though. America was to get out of his sight. America stiffened and frowned, looking disappointed and saddened that there would be no chance of friendship. Russia struggled to express his emotions, but the effort he strained to put into his voice let us clearly know what was within him. Anger. Yes, now it was definitely anger that raged in the cavity where his heart had been. More than that, I could hear under the aspirated attempts at consonants, the wailing over the unjustness- the pain from his helplessness in being dead.
Russia was extremely stressed and sorrowed, and now he blamed them all. Everyone that had been unsure of him, or had not shown him enough care before, was targeted. Russia creaked his head down toward France and Britain, teeth on both sides bared now as he hissed, "Leah! Leah!"
America was already padding backwards, eyebrows wrinkled as he fixed his shirt. "Alright, alright…" he swallowed. "Sorry…"
The speech of thanks he had given Russia shied away with him. America headed up the stairs while Britain and France fumbled for the Walmart bag and backed up. They turned and hurried out as Russia continued to rasp at them, slightly stressed, slightly confused, by the desires of that half-faced creature. Beside me, something fell from the bag that they did not notice. They trotted up the stairs while my eyes found the stained rib bone that had been dropped beside me.
Russia was quiet now and I was left alone with him. The television was remembered, seeming to become audible all at once. The words of the show characters that were ignorant of the situation pounded at my skull. From the rush of the others to leave, I felt apprehensive myself. I almost expected Russia to demand for me to leave, but he did not. The happy-go-lucky characters on TV could not be faced alone, after all.
I stared at the bone with churning unease as in my peripheral vision, a bony face decorated with cobwebs of red muscles turned to me. Quickly, I thought of America already far away from me. I wanted him here beside me now that he was back, but Russia had divided us. Russia wanted me to stay with him, and only me, for the many days that it would take for him to lose consciousness.
I would definitely see how he would rot throughout the hours. It would have been easier with others, if we had really created "a little party", to use America's words, that would have let us take our minds off the inevitable. The horror of the situation was more real now that I was isolated with him, and it would be all that I could think about.
"K-K-Ka."
I had to calm down. This was the same person who had comforted me when I had cried, and the one who I had just shared a birch sap drink with. But I wondered where that drink was now, and the disgusting thought poisoned me. I shivered and thought about the organs in America. Simultaneously, I wanted America to hold me again. I also wanted Russia to hold me, but the Russia with me now was frightening in his appearance and wrath. Still, I wished ever so much for his living warmth.
I thought about how it would feel to be nuzzled by the missing cheek, with the sides of teeth grating against my head. Further, I shrank, squeezed mercilessly by the rising stress. Tears slipped free, unexplained and as though without an origin, and Russia surely saw them.
Russia struggled with my name again. I could not stop staring at that bone on the floor, which shook in my wavering vision. It made everything worse, so in one movement, I kicked it away and placed my shaken hands over Russia's bandages. I moved in front of him, looking away until it was necessary. Then, I had a shock, where an eyeless hole was centimetres from my face. He had tilted his head closer, looking at me with his whole and wonderfully purple eye, but it had not been the first thing I noticed. I had seen death before life. As a result, I was overtaken by flashbacks of America's corpse.
I trembled and forced the bandages to wrap away that side of Russia. He tilted his head as he always did, wondering about me. When the awful side was covered, I felt somewhat better and could now focus on his good eye. Russia gave up on talking and stayed still until I tied the knots and fixed his new scarf. His mouth was covered back up, yet Russia did not mind; he had now said all that he had wanted.
He tried to touch me with what he could, so he touched his cheek against my forehead. These were not teeth, and the skin was still a little warm. It was not so bad, yet so much was missing and so much was not right. Undoubtedly, something was wrong with Russia, and the potential that this held unnerved me. I tentatively hugged him again, especially now since I knew that inside, he was burning with hatred. It would not do well if he still felt this way once he had been returned to life.
Yet again, I did not know what to do. It was easy for me to want him to forgive America, but Russia had suffered so much. He had hated America before too, just for causing me pain. That being understood, the hatred inside him now must have been much worse than I could have ever imagined. And I felt that if I left him to see America, it would grow more powerful. Russia needed me and he was probably thinking of how I had comforted him before, with cocoa and a blanket over his shoulders. That was the kind of person he saw in me now, but inside, I was a little afraid.
America is not a murderer, I thought. Not really. I've missed him for so long and now he's gone… I want to see him again. Will Russia let him come back later? America wanted to do all that he could for him, but he wouldn't accept it… I just wanted them to be friends, but this might just be it. I don't know…. I've messed up so much. Will it ever be possible for Russia to forgive him?