To Go Hand-In-Hand Part Two A (out fo 5 or 6)
anonymous
July 17 2010, 07:05:44 UTC
A noose. The scarf is tied as a noose.
Canada whips around to stare at Russia. “What the shit is that?” He is so harsh that Russia recoils, and his façade brakes. Suddenly he looks as lonely and stricken as he had when Canada had called him a ‘rat bastard’. Russia’s shoulders slump, and his smile drops. It’s a startling change and Canada doesn’t like it. Canada wonders if Russia contemplates hanging himself often. Canada wonders if Russia always does it right before they see a hockey game, or if he does it all the time. There is a sick feeling in Canada’s gut when he wonders these things: he is not sure if he wants it to be all the time and not his fault, or all his fault but fixable.
“I’m sorry,” Russia says. This time he sounds like he means it. “I had been meaning to do it earlier. This morning, so that you would know that I would not be-coming to the game.” Russia has dropped the accent, and all that remains is his natural awkward phrasing and some kind of terrible resignation. Canada hates it: Russia’s accent covered up his despair and now that he sees it Canada wishes that Russia would take up his irritatingly think accent again.
Russia continues, “You should be leaving now, da? I will repay you for your expenses for coming to my house. I have already left instructions. And, the me that comes after, I am sure that he or she will be glad to be your friend at hockey matches. Da, things are being fine.”
That sick feeling returns. “Leave?” he asks. There is some kind of lump in Canada’s throat. “Why would I-?”
Russia heaves a sigh, leaning against the archway back to the foyer, and then back to a world outside of the cold, damp, dark, big house Russia lives in. He looks like one prepared for a heavy blow, not expecting to withstand it. “It is too late to be attending the hockey game,” Russia says, “There isn’t another to go to, either.” Russia pauses. “Please, Canada, I did not mean to… cause you to be angry.”
“Is that really what you think of me? That I’m upset because-” Canada can’t finish the sentence that he started. Jesus’ tits and shit on a stick, as America would say, Russia hadn’t shown up to the hockey game because he was contemplating suicide and he thought Canada was angry about missing the game? Did other nations think that way about Canada, when they thought to think about him? Canada thinks he’s going to throw up. He tries to speak again, to tell Russia that he’s upset because Russia is going to commit suicide. But Russia interrupts him.
“Let someone else kill me would weaken my country, da? But, I do not mean to be being a bad host.” Russia tells Canada. Canada thinks that Russia looks a little stricken, sort of like how Canada feels, but more like he was expecting it and less like he’s going to thrown up. “You can watch, da. But… I did not think you would be wanting that.” It’s the way Russia’s shoulders go from slumped to crumpled when he says that apparently the only hope Russia had had to hold on to, previous to Canada’s clumsy intrusion, was that Canada would want him dead, but not hate him enough to want to watch. Canada is officially the worst friend/hockey buddy/fellow nation in the history of everything, because he could have prevented this and now he’s just making it worse.
Canada whips around to stare at Russia. “What the shit is that?” He is so harsh that Russia recoils, and his façade brakes. Suddenly he looks as lonely and stricken as he had when Canada had called him a ‘rat bastard’. Russia’s shoulders slump, and his smile drops. It’s a startling change and Canada doesn’t like it. Canada wonders if Russia contemplates hanging himself often. Canada wonders if Russia always does it right before they see a hockey game, or if he does it all the time. There is a sick feeling in Canada’s gut when he wonders these things: he is not sure if he wants it to be all the time and not his fault, or all his fault but fixable.
“I’m sorry,” Russia says. This time he sounds like he means it. “I had been meaning to do it earlier. This morning, so that you would know that I would not be-coming to the game.” Russia has dropped the accent, and all that remains is his natural awkward phrasing and some kind of terrible resignation. Canada hates it: Russia’s accent covered up his despair and now that he sees it Canada wishes that Russia would take up his irritatingly think accent again.
Russia continues, “You should be leaving now, da? I will repay you for your expenses for coming to my house. I have already left instructions. And, the me that comes after, I am sure that he or she will be glad to be your friend at hockey matches. Da, things are being fine.”
That sick feeling returns. “Leave?” he asks. There is some kind of lump in Canada’s throat. “Why would I-?”
Russia heaves a sigh, leaning against the archway back to the foyer, and then back to a world outside of the cold, damp, dark, big house Russia lives in. He looks like one prepared for a heavy blow, not expecting to withstand it. “It is too late to be attending the hockey game,” Russia says, “There isn’t another to go to, either.” Russia pauses. “Please, Canada, I did not mean to… cause you to be angry.”
“Is that really what you think of me? That I’m upset because-” Canada can’t finish the sentence that he started. Jesus’ tits and shit on a stick, as America would say, Russia hadn’t shown up to the hockey game because he was contemplating suicide and he thought Canada was angry about missing the game? Did other nations think that way about Canada, when they thought to think about him? Canada thinks he’s going to throw up. He tries to speak again, to tell Russia that he’s upset because Russia is going to commit suicide. But Russia interrupts him.
“Let someone else kill me would weaken my country, da? But, I do not mean to be being a bad host.” Russia tells Canada. Canada thinks that Russia looks a little stricken, sort of like how Canada feels, but more like he was expecting it and less like he’s going to thrown up. “You can watch, da. But… I did not think you would be wanting that.” It’s the way Russia’s shoulders go from slumped to crumpled when he says that apparently the only hope Russia had had to hold on to, previous to Canada’s clumsy intrusion, was that Canada would want him dead, but not hate him enough to want to watch. Canada is officially the worst friend/hockey buddy/fellow nation in the history of everything, because he could have prevented this and now he’s just making it worse.
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