The Companion [3.4/??]
anonymous
April 14 2010, 18:51:09 UTC
"Yeah," America breathed, "I'm going to run again." And with that, he sprinted past Russia.
America ran through growingly familiar passages, hardly taking in his surroundings as he raced about them. He had to find a safe spot, a room to hide himself in long enough to make a call. Only a few interrupted minutes, that was all he was asking for.
The floor gave out beneath America's feet. He half lurched, half fell down a flight of stairs he hadn't noticed. He tumbled headfirst, neck connecting with the sharp edge of the step. Pain shot through his body as he righted himself, ankle bending awkwardly in the process.
He fell in a dazed heap at the foot of the stairs, blinking away the sparking pain that constricted his senses. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, legs sprawled before him, loosely holding the knife in one hand, the phone in the other.
America was struck with an unexpected urge to sleep. To escape the fear, terror, and monsters that inhabited this house. Every step he took was another step closer to the heart of the madness. Russia and his madhouse were consuming America's sanity, ripping it from him and gobbling it up. If only he could rest, rid himself of the pain and fear he was being assaulted with.
The tears sprang back in full force as America began to crawl in the darkness. Chair legs bumped against his shoulder as he moved, the edge of a table knocking against his forehead. America sat back and ran a forearm across his eyes, careful not to nick himself with the knife. He'd have to turn on some lights if he was going to get anywhere.
With a listless heave, America righted himself and tottered back to the stairs, feeling for a switch. His fingers flicked against the first one he found, bathing the room in tones of fluorescent white and yellow. Dust particles danced in the air before America's eyes, flitting about as he watched.
The return of footsteps yanked America's attention away from the dust and back to the stairs. There was a bread crumb trail of blood leading right to him. America dropped the phone and knife before forcing himself back up the stairs, moving on all fours. There was an open door at the top.
America pulled the door shut as he reached the last step, locking it before clamoring back down the stairs. He'd bought himself some time, Russia would have to go find the key for the door before getting in.
America got to his knees and gathered the phone and knife to him. He searched the walls for phone jack, spotting one beneath the table he had previously bumped against. America mustered a broken smile as he crawled beneath it, fumbling the cords in his hand and plugging the jack in.
Bloodied fingers pressed at the number pad, sliding from key to key. With the receiver firmly held against his ear, America waited with baited breath for the phone to ring, tears still streaming in rivulets down his face. The line was dead.
"No, no, no," America panted at the phone, "You can't do this to me, I won't let you!"
A gentle knock at the door interrupted America's pleading. It was playful, lilting, almost rhythmic. "I'm coming in now, America," Russia announced, voice muffled.
America hugged the phone receiver to his chest, eyes growing wide and frightened. Lips trembled along with fingers. Only the door stood between him and Russia, and that wouldn't last long. He wiped the blood from his hand with a wince and readjusted his hold on the knife.
The deafening blast of a gunshot disarmed America. Wood splintered in his ears, dust burst from the top of the steps, the noise and confusion, partially deafening him. He stared at where the doorknob was─ where the doorknob had been. A gnarled hole had been blown in it, leaving a gaping wound.
Black, spidery fingers weaseled through the gash, waving in an almost pleasant manner before being pulled back out. America hardly dared to breath as the door swung open, the stoic figure of Russia emerging, descending the stairs with a lively, if not jaunty, step.
America ran through growingly familiar passages, hardly taking in his surroundings as he raced about them. He had to find a safe spot, a room to hide himself in long enough to make a call. Only a few interrupted minutes, that was all he was asking for.
The floor gave out beneath America's feet. He half lurched, half fell down a flight of stairs he hadn't noticed. He tumbled headfirst, neck connecting with the sharp edge of the step. Pain shot through his body as he righted himself, ankle bending awkwardly in the process.
He fell in a dazed heap at the foot of the stairs, blinking away the sparking pain that constricted his senses. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, legs sprawled before him, loosely holding the knife in one hand, the phone in the other.
America was struck with an unexpected urge to sleep. To escape the fear, terror, and monsters that inhabited this house. Every step he took was another step closer to the heart of the madness. Russia and his madhouse were consuming America's sanity, ripping it from him and gobbling it up. If only he could rest, rid himself of the pain and fear he was being assaulted with.
The tears sprang back in full force as America began to crawl in the darkness. Chair legs bumped against his shoulder as he moved, the edge of a table knocking against his forehead. America sat back and ran a forearm across his eyes, careful not to nick himself with the knife. He'd have to turn on some lights if he was going to get anywhere.
With a listless heave, America righted himself and tottered back to the stairs, feeling for a switch. His fingers flicked against the first one he found, bathing the room in tones of fluorescent white and yellow. Dust particles danced in the air before America's eyes, flitting about as he watched.
The return of footsteps yanked America's attention away from the dust and back to the stairs. There was a bread crumb trail of blood leading right to him. America dropped the phone and knife before forcing himself back up the stairs, moving on all fours. There was an open door at the top.
America pulled the door shut as he reached the last step, locking it before clamoring back down the stairs. He'd bought himself some time, Russia would have to go find the key for the door before getting in.
America got to his knees and gathered the phone and knife to him. He searched the walls for phone jack, spotting one beneath the table he had previously bumped against. America mustered a broken smile as he crawled beneath it, fumbling the cords in his hand and plugging the jack in.
Bloodied fingers pressed at the number pad, sliding from key to key. With the receiver firmly held against his ear, America waited with baited breath for the phone to ring, tears still streaming in rivulets down his face. The line was dead.
"No, no, no," America panted at the phone, "You can't do this to me, I won't let you!"
A gentle knock at the door interrupted America's pleading. It was playful, lilting, almost rhythmic. "I'm coming in now, America," Russia announced, voice muffled.
America hugged the phone receiver to his chest, eyes growing wide and frightened. Lips trembled along with fingers. Only the door stood between him and Russia, and that wouldn't last long. He wiped the blood from his hand with a wince and readjusted his hold on the knife.
The deafening blast of a gunshot disarmed America. Wood splintered in his ears, dust burst from the top of the steps, the noise and confusion, partially deafening him. He stared at where the doorknob was─ where the doorknob had been. A gnarled hole had been blown in it, leaving a gaping wound.
Black, spidery fingers weaseled through the gash, waving in an almost pleasant manner before being pulled back out. America hardly dared to breath as the door swung open, the stoic figure of Russia emerging, descending the stairs with a lively, if not jaunty, step.
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