Kennels [1/2]
anonymous
April 4 2009, 13:46:44 UTC
I'm so sorry I just passed over what actually transpired in the training time... I apologise if it isn't what op wanted...
The Russian patted Matthew’s head, as he sat beside him, Russia sipping from a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper. Matthew’s head was on his lap, and there was something incredibly calm about the scene, despite the position. It hadn’t been long since there had been fire in Canada’s eyes as he had submitted to this, submitted to the demeaning collar that was around his neck. It had taken a while for Russia to get him to become like this, fall into this perfect state mentally where he didn’t have to- couldn’t even- focus on any big issues.
They’d started this not all that long ago, after Russia had visited a tense, stressed Canada who had red shooting through his eyes from substance abuse. Even high as he was, there was still tension in his body, still the fear of setting a foot wrong. Russia had promised him something that would take his mind off everything and, Canada assuming a particularly potent form of weed, he’d followed.
How wrong he’d been. As soon as he’d entered Russia’s house, he’d felt uncomfortable, the gates clanging shut ominously behind him. That was probably the point he should have started running. But he’d accepted the hospitality, the food and the vodka (which, unknown to him at that point, had been laced with sleeping pills).
He’d woken up elsewhere, black leather collar securely around his neck and chained to a wall outside. Panic had overtaken his body, fear flooding his system. He’d pulled at the collar (no good, there was a lock on it), tried to stand (the chain wasn’t long enough, he could only crouch) and yelled. Dispassionate violet eyes had watched him suffer, watched him call for help, outside in the cold, in the wired kennels. Either side of the wire fences were dogs, jumping and barking and yelping for their master. Russia, the sick bastard (as Matthew had thought at that time), had fondled any that came to meet him, noses pressed to the wire, even brought some of them out in a mocking show and tell, a point of what Canada needed to do, needed to lower himself to.
Canada had refused, until his bones felt chilled, and then Russia was gone, a handler pushing bowls of food through hatches at the bottom.
There was a pause and a point of kicking the wire door, a bowl pushed through, filled with some rank porridge type thing. When Canada made no sound, a harshly edged phrase was muttered. “Хорошая собака.”
He howled, actually howled, and then the violet eyed terror had turned up by the door, shit-eating grin affixed to his face. “хорошая собака,” he’d repeated, before twisting his head a little to run his eyes up and down Canada. “It’s too late now; dogs cannot sleep inside the house. Only people may do that.”
A whimper that was more to do with the abject cold and disappointment (it had less to do with humiliation than one may have thought) had fallen from Canada’s lips, which were vaguely blue, but Russia had turned to instruct the handler. Later, the handler had tentatively entered the cage, cruel eyes and savage grin. A well aimed kick had connected with Canada’s side, though no effort had been made to dodge it. Instead, his face contorted a little with pain, a small cry let out, and the blankets had been dropped in the small hut, built to accommodate the dogs out here, to shelter them from the cold.
The hardly touched porridge had been removed from the kennel, and a note made on a clipboard on the front. He felt like he was in one of those animal protection centres, though far more ill treated, and Canada dragged his body mass back to the shelter. Tears fell silently, ignored, from his eyes until he’d sniffed and wiped at his eyes. Crying yourself to sleep was overrated, Canada thought as he pulled a blanket over his shaking body, the tears just froze on your face.
It seemed so long ago, he mused, since he’d woken up that next morning, remembering to howl and bark when Russia had gotten close. But Russia had seen the notes on that clipboard, laughed sadistically. “Only good dogs that eat all their food may come into the house.”
The Russian patted Matthew’s head, as he sat beside him, Russia sipping from a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper. Matthew’s head was on his lap, and there was something incredibly calm about the scene, despite the position. It hadn’t been long since there had been fire in Canada’s eyes as he had submitted to this, submitted to the demeaning collar that was around his neck. It had taken a while for Russia to get him to become like this, fall into this perfect state mentally where he didn’t have to- couldn’t even- focus on any big issues.
They’d started this not all that long ago, after Russia had visited a tense, stressed Canada who had red shooting through his eyes from substance abuse. Even high as he was, there was still tension in his body, still the fear of setting a foot wrong. Russia had promised him something that would take his mind off everything and, Canada assuming a particularly potent form of weed, he’d followed.
How wrong he’d been. As soon as he’d entered Russia’s house, he’d felt uncomfortable, the gates clanging shut ominously behind him. That was probably the point he should have started running. But he’d accepted the hospitality, the food and the vodka (which, unknown to him at that point, had been laced with sleeping pills).
He’d woken up elsewhere, black leather collar securely around his neck and chained to a wall outside. Panic had overtaken his body, fear flooding his system. He’d pulled at the collar (no good, there was a lock on it), tried to stand (the chain wasn’t long enough, he could only crouch) and yelled. Dispassionate violet eyes had watched him suffer, watched him call for help, outside in the cold, in the wired kennels. Either side of the wire fences were dogs, jumping and barking and yelping for their master. Russia, the sick bastard (as Matthew had thought at that time), had fondled any that came to meet him, noses pressed to the wire, even brought some of them out in a mocking show and tell, a point of what Canada needed to do, needed to lower himself to.
Canada had refused, until his bones felt chilled, and then Russia was gone, a handler pushing bowls of food through hatches at the bottom.
There was a pause and a point of kicking the wire door, a bowl pushed through, filled with some rank porridge type thing. When Canada made no sound, a harshly edged phrase was muttered. “Хорошая собака.”
He howled, actually howled, and then the violet eyed terror had turned up by the door, shit-eating grin affixed to his face. “хорошая собака,” he’d repeated, before twisting his head a little to run his eyes up and down Canada. “It’s too late now; dogs cannot sleep inside the house. Only people may do that.”
A whimper that was more to do with the abject cold and disappointment (it had less to do with humiliation than one may have thought) had fallen from Canada’s lips, which were vaguely blue, but Russia had turned to instruct the handler. Later, the handler had tentatively entered the cage, cruel eyes and savage grin. A well aimed kick had connected with Canada’s side, though no effort had been made to dodge it. Instead, his face contorted a little with pain, a small cry let out, and the blankets had been dropped in the small hut, built to accommodate the dogs out here, to shelter them from the cold.
The hardly touched porridge had been removed from the kennel, and a note made on a clipboard on the front. He felt like he was in one of those animal protection centres, though far more ill treated, and Canada dragged his body mass back to the shelter. Tears fell silently, ignored, from his eyes until he’d sniffed and wiped at his eyes. Crying yourself to sleep was overrated, Canada thought as he pulled a blanket over his shaking body, the tears just froze on your face.
It seemed so long ago, he mused, since he’d woken up that next morning, remembering to howl and bark when Russia had gotten close. But Russia had seen the notes on that clipboard, laughed sadistically. “Only good dogs that eat all their food may come into the house.”
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