•Countryhumans Lore•

Father Is To Blame

Some parts of this story are inspired by the video above which belongs to MrSpherical. (Skip to 2:04 in the video)

Context: It's January 1992, a few days after the fall of the Soviet Union. Ukraine knew she was adopted from a very young age but she always wondered who her real father was. Little did she know, a bunch of nuclear weapons were right under her nose for so many years. And those nukes were the key to figuring out her real father's secret.

This is a part of a larger head cannon.

Ukraine's POV

     If you're a countryhuman like me, you'll learn at a very young age that the world isn't full of rainbows and unicorns. I learned that earlier than most. My father died when I was four years old from war. His death was always sort of a mystery that no one ever bothered to solve because not many people knew him. Nevertheless, my entire childhood was just short of a mess. If there's one country to blame, it's my adoptive father.

     I never liked communism but luckily for me, my father is the literal definition of communism. The Soviet Union. The most feared communist country. Everyone has a right to be scared of him. From his stupid attempts at torturing me and my siblings to his arsenal of nuclear bombs, he was no laughing matter.

     So when he finally fell I had mixed emotions. A strange combination of sorrow and happiness. But mostly happiness. A lot of happiness. Truth be told, I hated the USSR so much that I don't even know if I can call him my father. He has been the reason every bad thing that has ever happened to me happened except for the situation with my real father. I barely knew my real father, really, but I guarantee he wouldn't have starved me, pulled me into some Nazi garbage, or forced communism upon me.

     I carry an empty box with the word "DONATION" imprinted on the side with a thick black marker. I slouch up to my room and start to shove useless items from my room into the box.

     An old LEGO set? Donate. A Superman comic (that I maybe stole from Kazakhstan)? I blow some of the dust off of its flimsy cover and throw it in the box.

     I slowly work my way around the room, throwing away my childhood item by item. I don't need any of it.

     My eyes lay on a small brown stuffed bear. It's so carefully tucked away in the corner of the room, I hadn't noticed it. I reach underneath my desk and pull the little bear out of the corner.

     But the back of my hand brushes against something else as I grab the bear. Something cold and hard.

     I look back under my desk and into the corner and spot a small strip of golden metal. But it's not just any strip of golden metal. It's a door hinge.

     My eyes trace the corner up a meter and... aha! Another hinge. Up another meter is another door hinge. Puzzled, I look to the right of the last hinge to see a small crack running horizontal covered by a painting. I immediately recognize this as the top of a door and hastily take the painting off of the wall.

    And sure enough, I'm right. An old wooden door painted to match the dark brown walls of my bedroom. I stare at the door in awe, observing its old features. It looks like it has been here for centuries, yet I only notice it now.

     Should I open it? I don't know. Slowly I move my hand and place it on the golden and slightly rusted doorknob. I twist it. Nothing happens.