It's Not Over (RusAme Story)

Chapter 33- Soviet

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

~America's POV~

Light filtered in through the large bay window in my grandmother's guest room. I rested my forehead against the chilly glass, thoughts swirling through my mind. A tear slid down my cheek as I eyed the bright snow outside.

The snow reminded me of him. When he was in my room and we got snowed in. He was so irritated, but if I had been ecstatic at the sight of the frozen flakes. I'd thought that his cold demeanor was to protect himself from letting people slip past his guard, but I was wrong.

The harsh reality was that he'd always been like this, I was just too naive to see that. I rubbed my swollen eyes, trying not to think of everything that had gone wrong.

I distracted myself by staring absentmindedly at the woven bedspread, forcing myself to focus on something else in hopes of clearing my mind.

The furniture in the room that I currently occupied was all hand-carved from spruce wood. It had been carved by my Aunt Cherokee's deceased husband. He had been a man very dedicated to nature, as was my grandmother.

Aunt Cherokee wasn't really my grandmother, but I liked to think of her that way because she was the closest person to a grandmother for me. My real grandmother was my father's mother, Nan.

Nan was a grouchy lady that barely came to visit us, and when she did, it was torture. She always claimed that the food had too much flavor for her taste, and refused to drink anything but tea and freshly squeezed lemon water. She was a nuisance, and always made nasty comments on my behaviors, which only served to disappoint Britain further.

Her husband wasn't much better. He barely did anything but read the newspaper and complain about how messy and loud the house was. He absolutely loved my brother though, so that was a plus, but he always looked at me like I was expired tea or something.

For this reason, I chose to adopt Aunt Cherokee and her husband as my "real" grandparents.

I looked from the window and peered at my surroundings. This very room spoke of their essence. A large traditional-style rug that my grandmother had loomed lay on the floor, and above the bed was the gigantic nest of my grandmother's old pet bald eagle, Uwohali.

Aunt Cherokee had found Uwohali on the bank of the pond outside her house when I was around the age of five or six. He had a broken wing and was severely injured by an arrow that had grazed his leg. She took him in and cared for him, and ever since, he'd never left her side.

When I was little, she used to sic Uwohali on her husband when he was complaining about doing dishes. I would shriek with laughter as her eagle dive-bombed her husband, and now that I look back on it, I really miss the way things used to be.

Uwohali had passed a few years ago from old age shortly after Cherokee's husband, but I'd never forgotten him.

Dread sat in my stomach as the wind picked up outside, whistling through the brittle tree branches and kicking up a whirlwind of sparkling snowflakes. They drifted along lightly, sticking to the glass panes and muddy ground.

I breathed in, and that was when I smelled spices from grandma's signature soup wafting up from downstairs. The chill disappeared and was replaced with immense warmth.

Her warm soup and cornbread were exactly what I needed right now.

I swiped at my tears, readying myself to go downstairs after my humiliating arrival.

Britain had dragged me here straight from the rink, so I had nothing but the clothes on my back when he dumped me on the porch in the cold without a word. He hadn't even bothered to go inside and talk to his adoptive sister, so I just watched as he drove off.