When England came to again, there hadn’t been a single change in his position. His physical condition, however, had deteriorated by several degrees. Halfway through-as Russia called it-the preparation, he had lost consciousness, unable to take the pain. The man’s hands had been relentless, striking with measured force-mathematically accurate, not hard enough to break him completely and yet not holding back either. Never hitting the vital areas and never hitting twice at the same place unless it was with another device of his.
He let out a soft groan and cracked his eyes open. It turned out to a wrong move because light pierced his eyes and pain lanced through his brain. He shut them immediately and hung his head forward, trembling from the agony. After his nausea subsided, he opened his eyes again, carefully this time and kept his gaze lowered. The sight that greeted him made him sick all over again.
His stomach was patterned with red-black stripes of the whip, crisscrossing down to his thighs where the fabric of his trousers was torn off. He could see dried puddles of blood on the floor, large red and brown stains on his trouser legs and socks. His stomach clenched unpleasantly. Even though he had eaten nothing for a while, his appetite was killed off by the sight of his own wounds.
He was almost glad of it. Hunger, thirst and fatigue bothered countries less than humans, but when it did, it was just as unbearable.
Finally, his eyes grew accustomed to the bright glare of the sun shining through the open window-Russia must have left it open-so he looked up, studying the room again because it was quite difficult to make out what was outside from his angle. The only exit of the room was located to his left, and firmly shut and covered with a crude yellow mat that hung from above like a curtain. The door was painted in bright green and looked sturdy-not that England could break through his bonds and then take down the door. Especially not in his current state.
He was banking upon just one thing: someone was bound to notice that he was missing. His movements could be easily traced and anyone with decent intelligence would be able to put two and two together. Adding Russia to the picture would be a stretch of imagination, but England was certain that sooner or later, someone would figure it out. He just hoped for sooner. And they’d better hurry up before he died of blood loss, thirst or starvation.
The feeling was returning in his body bit by bit, accompanied by pain. He could only bite his already torn lip and bear it, waiting for Russia to return and unleash some new horror. And if he ever got out, he resolved to pay Russia back with interest-giving just as good as he got.
Just as he was contemplating several creative ways to get back at Russia, the man himself walked in through the door. He was holding his hands in front of his chest, cradling something below his coat. He shut the door behind him, giving England a brief glance of the outside world. The desolate, empty scenery greeted him, as far as his eyes could reach, there was sand and houses like the one he was in. It was just a brief glimpse, but it killed the flicker of hope he had in his heart. Already, an idea about his whereabouts was beginning to dawn upon, and if it was true, he was screwed.
“There’s no escape for you now, comrade.” He heard Russia's words echoing his sentiments and something turned in his gut.
“Don’t call me that!” he managed to spit out after a few seconds. The word irked him more than the deep wounds and lacerations on his skin.
Russia smiled patiently as he undid his coat and draped it over the chair, revealing a form-fitting military uniform underneath. His back was turned to England, so he could not tell what the man had brought with him. Therefore, he just heaved an irritated sigh and tried to focus his gaze somewhere other than Russia and his own wounds.
After a pause of few seconds, Russia turned and approached him, holding something in his hand. It wasn’t until something cold and hard pressed against his lips that he looked at Russia. “What?” he snapped.
He let out a soft groan and cracked his eyes open. It turned out to a wrong move because light pierced his eyes and pain lanced through his brain. He shut them immediately and hung his head forward, trembling from the agony. After his nausea subsided, he opened his eyes again, carefully this time and kept his gaze lowered. The sight that greeted him made him sick all over again.
His stomach was patterned with red-black stripes of the whip, crisscrossing down to his thighs where the fabric of his trousers was torn off. He could see dried puddles of blood on the floor, large red and brown stains on his trouser legs and socks. His stomach clenched unpleasantly. Even though he had eaten nothing for a while, his appetite was killed off by the sight of his own wounds.
He was almost glad of it. Hunger, thirst and fatigue bothered countries less than humans, but when it did, it was just as unbearable.
Finally, his eyes grew accustomed to the bright glare of the sun shining through the open window-Russia must have left it open-so he looked up, studying the room again because it was quite difficult to make out what was outside from his angle. The only exit of the room was located to his left, and firmly shut and covered with a crude yellow mat that hung from above like a curtain. The door was painted in bright green and looked sturdy-not that England could break through his bonds and then take down the door. Especially not in his current state.
He was banking upon just one thing: someone was bound to notice that he was missing. His movements could be easily traced and anyone with decent intelligence would be able to put two and two together. Adding Russia to the picture would be a stretch of imagination, but England was certain that sooner or later, someone would figure it out. He just hoped for sooner. And they’d better hurry up before he died of blood loss, thirst or starvation.
The feeling was returning in his body bit by bit, accompanied by pain. He could only bite his already torn lip and bear it, waiting for Russia to return and unleash some new horror. And if he ever got out, he resolved to pay Russia back with interest-giving just as good as he got.
Just as he was contemplating several creative ways to get back at Russia, the man himself walked in through the door. He was holding his hands in front of his chest, cradling something below his coat. He shut the door behind him, giving England a brief glance of the outside world. The desolate, empty scenery greeted him, as far as his eyes could reach, there was sand and houses like the one he was in. It was just a brief glimpse, but it killed the flicker of hope he had in his heart. Already, an idea about his whereabouts was beginning to dawn upon, and if it was true, he was screwed.
“There’s no escape for you now, comrade.” He heard Russia's words echoing his sentiments and something turned in his gut.
“Don’t call me that!” he managed to spit out after a few seconds. The word irked him more than the deep wounds and lacerations on his skin.
Russia smiled patiently as he undid his coat and draped it over the chair, revealing a form-fitting military uniform underneath. His back was turned to England, so he could not tell what the man had brought with him. Therefore, he just heaved an irritated sigh and tried to focus his gaze somewhere other than Russia and his own wounds.
After a pause of few seconds, Russia turned and approached him, holding something in his hand. It wasn’t until something cold and hard pressed against his lips that he looked at Russia. “What?” he snapped.
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