The Companion [2.8/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 17:07:33 UTC
He certainly didn't view people as living, breathing things, with wants and needs of their own. They were only around to serve him, provide entertainment. No matter what he pretended to be, Russia was not human, his mind dwelt in places that none ever should, and committed acts so horrific there were no words to describe them.
America lay in bed, giving himself reason after reason for why he had to escape. He perked up at what he thought might be the sound of the front door opening and closing, elated that Russia was already on his way to the store. Now all he had to do was jimmy the lock on the door and he'd be home free.
He swung his legs over the bed, dangling his toes above the flooring. He'd have to pull a MacGyver, using only the most basic of items to break out. Surely there would be something of use to him in one of the many boxes.
He began to overturn boxes once again on the floor with reckless abandon, only half-registering what they contained before moving onto the next. A yip of glee rolled of his tongue as he heard a metallic, tinny clatter as dozens of paperclips bounced across the floor.
America crouched down, fingers flailing until they snagged one of the clips. He brought it to his lips, planted a grateful kiss on the malleable frame. After bestowing it with silent thanks, he unraveled the wire, approaching the door as he did his best to turn the rounded of the clip edges into a straight line.
He worked the clip into the keyhole, aimlessly shoving it around within the lock mechanism, hoping for the door to simply recognize his awesomeness and pop open. When it didn't, America resorted to prodding more slowly, trying to hook and press at the insides of the lock.
He thought about how long it would be until Russia was back. Half an hour would be a good estimate. Chances were Russia didn't exactly live close to town, and the snow-covered ground would only lengthen the trip. America figured he would even have time to snoop about, find a few things to blackmail Russia with in the future.
The door refused to give. America whined in irritation, unwilling to believe an inanimate object could be so stubborn. He shoved his shoulder against it a few times, earning only an unsatisfying rattle from the door. A tiny, biting voice began to nag at him, remind him every other second that he was wasting time.
What if Russia really wasn't that far from the store? For all America knew, it could be within walking distance of the house, and he only thought it far because he couldn't see it from his window. Icy tendrils of worry twined around America's common sense as he continued to think, constricting his calmness.
Maybe it would be best to wait for another opportunity. Not that America wanted to stick around, but so far staying in this room wasn't the worst experience of his life. Russia had been unexpectedly kind, calm, hadn't even struck out at him when he'd had a paperweight chucked at him.
America shook his head fervently and continued to work at the lock. Thinking about Russia as anything but an inhuman beast was wrong. His hands weren't soft, his words weren't kind, and he certainly didn't want America around just for some company.
A gentle creak reached America's ears as the door slowly opened. He gaped at it, having been too deep in thought to notice he had unlocked it. Without thinking, he jerked it back shut. Should he really leave? Since when was escaping one's kidnapper so easy?
The annoying voice that had previously nagged America about Russia's return came back for a second go. Have you heard about a little something called Stockholm Syndrome? It asked him.
"Yeah, it's that kooky thing people get when they're taken hostage. They start thinking their captors are pretty stand-up guys," America said, unaware that he was conversing with himself aloud.
I can't help but notice you've had a few thoughts similar to that regarding Russia.
America lay in bed, giving himself reason after reason for why he had to escape. He perked up at what he thought might be the sound of the front door opening and closing, elated that Russia was already on his way to the store. Now all he had to do was jimmy the lock on the door and he'd be home free.
He swung his legs over the bed, dangling his toes above the flooring. He'd have to pull a MacGyver, using only the most basic of items to break out. Surely there would be something of use to him in one of the many boxes.
He began to overturn boxes once again on the floor with reckless abandon, only half-registering what they contained before moving onto the next. A yip of glee rolled of his tongue as he heard a metallic, tinny clatter as dozens of paperclips bounced across the floor.
America crouched down, fingers flailing until they snagged one of the clips. He brought it to his lips, planted a grateful kiss on the malleable frame. After bestowing it with silent thanks, he unraveled the wire, approaching the door as he did his best to turn the rounded of the clip edges into a straight line.
He worked the clip into the keyhole, aimlessly shoving it around within the lock mechanism, hoping for the door to simply recognize his awesomeness and pop open. When it didn't, America resorted to prodding more slowly, trying to hook and press at the insides of the lock.
He thought about how long it would be until Russia was back. Half an hour would be a good estimate. Chances were Russia didn't exactly live close to town, and the snow-covered ground would only lengthen the trip. America figured he would even have time to snoop about, find a few things to blackmail Russia with in the future.
The door refused to give. America whined in irritation, unwilling to believe an inanimate object could be so stubborn. He shoved his shoulder against it a few times, earning only an unsatisfying rattle from the door. A tiny, biting voice began to nag at him, remind him every other second that he was wasting time.
What if Russia really wasn't that far from the store? For all America knew, it could be within walking distance of the house, and he only thought it far because he couldn't see it from his window. Icy tendrils of worry twined around America's common sense as he continued to think, constricting his calmness.
Maybe it would be best to wait for another opportunity. Not that America wanted to stick around, but so far staying in this room wasn't the worst experience of his life. Russia had been unexpectedly kind, calm, hadn't even struck out at him when he'd had a paperweight chucked at him.
America shook his head fervently and continued to work at the lock. Thinking about Russia as anything but an inhuman beast was wrong. His hands weren't soft, his words weren't kind, and he certainly didn't want America around just for some company.
A gentle creak reached America's ears as the door slowly opened. He gaped at it, having been too deep in thought to notice he had unlocked it. Without thinking, he jerked it back shut. Should he really leave? Since when was escaping one's kidnapper so easy?
The annoying voice that had previously nagged America about Russia's return came back for a second go. Have you heard about a little something called Stockholm Syndrome? It asked him.
"Yeah, it's that kooky thing people get when they're taken hostage. They start thinking their captors are pretty stand-up guys," America said, unaware that he was conversing with himself aloud.
I can't help but notice you've had a few thoughts similar to that regarding Russia.
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