Darkness of Ours (RusAme)

Chapter 6

America's P.O.V

It was all the same.

Each and every moment consisted of rough batterings that made me grunt, as the air in my lungs was stolen from me. My face was stained with a grimace, my lip was cut, and blood seemed to ooze out of every puncture that this place left in my body.

My chest was pressed up against the floor, while my head tilted to the right. The salty, maroon liquid dripped into my mouth, and it pooled up, until it eventually spilled over. My fingers twitched with a want to do something to fight back, yet it was pointless. My legs tensed and coiled together every so often, when they were struck with a new injury.

I was so tired of everything. It hurt at the beginning, and it still did, but it felt hollow. The initial shock value of being here had dissipated with time.

How long had I even been here? One week? One month? One year? One-hundred years?

Either way it felt the same. A single second could equal a century for all I cared.

Did my states even remember me at this point? Did their memories disappear as quickly as mine had? Of course, I still remembered vague things, like events and how I got here, yet nothing specific.

The former countries that I've met here have mostly asked about what became of them, their kids, and their people. For some I had answers, for others, their questions became mine as well.

I yelped as a much more powerful force crashed onto me. I felt small cracks in my floor, and they stuck to me like broken glass. I tried to get up and away from it, but it cracked under my feet, and I was sent plummeting down.

A feeling of nostalgia planted itself in my brain, while I was sent tumbling. Granted, this didn't exactly happen often, but it happened enough to where it felt familiar.

Air zipped past my face the further along I went. Since everything looked like an endless void, I couldn't tell if the floor was getting close or not.

But, then I hit it, and a splintering sound spiraled out from my arms. I bit my tongue, as they snapped back into place. I rolled my newly-formed wrist once they had returned back to normal.

I grumbled under my breath, while I looked around. I was in an identical room to the one I had previously been in, if I could even call it that. Black walls, a black floor, and a black ceiling, though maybe there wasn't one at all.

My eyes darted around the darkened landscape in search for the other person, for it had become a routine at this point. When I stood up, and spun around, I finally spotted who I was meant to converse with.

I immediately wanted to crawl into a hole and die all over again.

Soviet.

If his completely red skin and hair weren't enough to give him away, then his singular brown eye was. His locks dropped slightly past his shoulders, and they were in a snarled and knotted mess. He was a bit taller than me, but not by a lot. Common assumptions of people with his body structure would make me think that he was built for a role in the front lines, yet he was always quite reserved and calculative.

We both studied each other for a moment, as we assessed the other's threat level.

To my dismay, it was only a moment.

"Hello, America." Soviet hissed, while his eye narrowed.

I sighed, "Hi, Soviet. Funny seeing you here."