Words to Live By - A Countryhumans SovAme Story

Prologue

A girl runs through the halls of the palace she calls home. She is in a panic. She, however, is no normal girl. Her face is white and blue, rather than any normal skin color. She knows this, though, and it is not the reason for her alarm. The only thing running through her head is what she's just witnessed. She's terrified, and she can't stop thinking of what her mother said.

"I'll always be proud of you..."

How could she say that to the girl's sister, while she was murdering the woman who'd raised her?

Sister...her sister! Her sister is coming now, coming to kill her! She has to escape. She bursts through the doors into the garden, setting a course for the nearest train station.

She hears a voice behind her.

"Sister!" the voice screams. It's her pursuer. She barely hears the cry, as she's already far from the palace. She will not stand and be killed, so she runs. She does not look back, and she never will.

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2018

Brussels, Belgium

Russia's POV

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UN does things in strange ways.

I get up from my seat, walking out of our meeting room through the fray of other countries. The UN, or just UN, the man that organizes all of us, has an odd way of giving speeches. As I'm walking out of the General Assembly room, China catches up with me. He's my boyfriend.

"Hey, Russia!"

I turn to meet him.

"Hey, China. What's up?"

"Nothing much. Our plans for the café are still on, right?"

I nod.

"I've got to stop by my place first, I've got just a tiny bit of work to do," I say.

He nods. We walk into the parking lot together, hands intertwined. We part when I reach my car.

"I'll see you later," I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

I get into my car, putting the key in the ignition. The buildings fly by, gradually turning into fields as I drive through the Belgian countryside. I turn on some Алёна Швец, quietly singing along to her smooth voice. At last, I reach the place I'm staying. You see, I would rather stay in a tiny rented house in the middle of nowhere than back in Brussels while I'm in Belgium, simply because I do not like other people very much. I get out of the car, walking into the little place. It belongs to Belgium, but she knows about my anti-socialness, so she lets me stay here when UN calls us all together. I head up to the bedroom, where my suitcase is. I reach in, digging past my clothing and work documents.

Ah. There it is.

I pull out a thick, worn book. The writing on the front is in Russian. It reads, Property of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. There is no other writing, but I know that it's a journal. It belonged to my mother, the Soviet Union, when she was alive. As far as I know, nobody is aware that I have it. I open it to the page I've bookmarked it at.

I wonder why I didn't start reading this sooner.

I've been burning through it at lighting speed, because it's just so interesting. I've already read the part about her early days, before the revolution. I read the part about the death of my grandmother, the Russian Empire, several times. I flew through the bit about the death of my aunt, and that has been the most interesting part thus far. I run my hand down the worn page, and I enjoy reading my mother's swooping, warm handwriting. The script gives me a nostalgic feeling, reminding me of her. My eyes scan this new page, eager for whatever secrets the account of her life holds for me next. However, something about this page is different. I'm surprised by what I'm reading, and I quickly flip through the next pages, trying to figure out exactly what I'm looking at. After a few minutes, I give my boyfriend a call.

"I think our dinner plans are going to have to be cancelled, China."

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The metro here does not move fast enough.

I'm standing in a metro car, tapping my foot against the ground impatiently. However, it's also because I'm nervous that I can't keep still. The person that I'm here to visit is the fault of that. I keep looking around, trying to occupy my eyes. The people around me are all human, and if they look at me they will see nothing but a human girl of twenty-six. I watch the underground zip by out the window, and I am heavily reminded of the New York City subway. At last, after seemingly an eon, the train arrives at my stop. I jump out as fast as is possible against the rush of people, before hurrying through the metro station. I climb the escalator into the city, temporarily blinded by the sun.

"Not quite there yet," I mutter, "why couldn't the metro have a stop on her street?"

But I pay no mind to the matter. I speedwalk up the busy road, going about three blocks. I continue down another street, at last coming to a stop in front of one of the townhouses. It's one of many, but the flag hanging outside of the front door tells me all I need to know. I've been here before, only this time the host is not expecting me. I unlatch the gate, and walk up the front path. The front door is black, with a circular gold knocker. I wait a couple minutes after knocking, before some shuffling noises inside alert me that the resident of the townhouse has heard me. The door opens, and I'm greeted with a familiar, though slightly suspicious, face.

"Anya," America says, using my human name, "What brings you to Washington D.C.?"

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After inviting me inside, America makes some tea. I sit in her living room, listening to the sounds of her bustling around in the kitchen. At last, she enters the living room, holding a silver platter. She sets it on the coffee table, and picks up the porcelain teapot. As she pours two cups of tea, we talk.

"The traffic bad?" She asks.

"I took the metro. The busiest part was getting through the airport. Shame you flew back from Belgium before I could talk to you there."

She chuckles.

"Ronald Reagan has to be the most crowded airport ever. I can never get through security quick enough."

We exchange a bit more small talk as I watch her drop two sugar cubes into her tea. I worry a handkerchief between my thumbs. 

"Earl gray?" I ask.

"Yes. One cube or two?"

"Two."

We sit across from each other in her soft leather armchairs apprehensively. It's completely silent, aside from the sound of teacups clinking on their saucers. At last, when my tea is down to its dregs, she looks up at me.

"So. Russia. I know for a fact that you did not fly all the way across the Atlantic just to chat and drink tea with me," she says as she leans forward in her chair, "so why are you really here?"

I draw in a breath. I've been nervous about this conversation since I stepped into the Belgian airport terminal. I grab my bag off the floor, and I pull out my mother's journal.

"What's that?"

"A journal that belonged to the Soviet Union."

I watch the set of her shoulders tense at the mention of her former enemy's name. I thumb through the book, looking for the right page. As I do, she continues to interrogate me.

"Where did you get it? Have you read it?"

"It came into my possession in 1992. I've only started reading through it recently, but that's actually what I'm here to talk to you about."

She suddenly looks very stressed. I realize that I am not the only one in the room to have known about the contents of the journal before this meeting. She stops talking, and watches me intensely. When I find the right page at last, I hold it up for her to see.

"Tell me, America, what is the meaning of this?"

El Fin.