Hetalia Deaths

Ivan Braginski (Russia)

Now, I present you with Russia. Ivan was a schizophrenic who died in a mental hospital. This explains his childlike cruelty and 'insane' tendencies.
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The only view of the outside world that Ivan had seen for the past seven years was a vast expanse of snow framed in between four iron bars. It was white. White and bland. He had vague memories of where he grew up, with sun and flowers, but he could only remember white. He could only remember an endless winter. The winter was all he had.

He didn't really mind it, winter. It was beautiful in its own way, just like everything in the world. The icicles that formed on the overhang above his window were filled with beautiful ridges and glimmered when the sun caught their dagger-like forms. When the snow fell, it swirled about in the air, dancing to an imperceptible tune. If Ivan looked outside, even in the middle of the night, the sky was an eerie pale gray.

One of the two things he hated about the never-ending winter was the cold. The stone walls kept out none of the freezing air, and his room turned into somewhat of a frigid container when the sun was down, which was more often than not. The cold was bone chilling, and Ivan barely had anything to retain his own warmth.

The other thing that Ivan did not like about the winter was the abundance of monotone colors. The sky, the ground and even the trees were dyed a pale gray or white. It wasn't that he wanted a more 'exciting' view, but the dead background only provided the perfect canvas for exactly what he wanted to keep out. His own demons took advantage of that blank space. Oftentimes, Ivan would end up on the cold tone floor, curled up, hands desperately trying to block out everything from the whispers to the screams. They played out their sinister, delusionary tragedies on the empty backdrop. They were the reason that he had been outcast from his friends, his family and even total strangers. They were the reason he was in the frozen-over hell that he was in now and, in his rare moments of clarity, he only wanted them to go away. But they pursued him with a vengeance.

Who was he? He could rarely recognize himself anymore when they were there. How long had he been here? His mind could no longer properly put together time. It could no longer properly discern his own illusions and reality, running the two dimensions together like wet paint, mixing in a muddy stream of swirling colors.

Yes, who are you, Ivan? That voice was whispering into the deepest recesses of his ears. You're the crazy one. They locked you in here for a reason.

It was your family, you know it. They didn't want the embarrassment of having a danger to society in their own home. You were, you are, a disgrace. The second one whispered.

"Stop it." He tried to order them. They hadn't listened for his whole life, and he understood that they wouldn't start now.

You can't quiet your own head, you pitiless disgrace.

Worthless lunatic.

"Stop it." He said more firmly. He was curled against the cold gray wall, hands pressed against his ears. Every effort to keep them out was futile.

Psychopath! You know you are, just admit it.

"I-I'm not a psychopath." Ivan's voice trembled slightly. He hated himself; what he was, how he acted, how he couldn't keep the voices away. He would do anything to release himself of this prison that his mind was ensnared inside of.

Ha! Just keep telling yourself that. It paused for a moment, almost as though it was thinking of its own accord. Do you remember that time as a child, when you hurt your mother?

"That was you. I would never touch my mother. Never touch her. No, no." Ivan remembered it well, unfortunately, but his mind insisted on recreating it again and again, showing him what he did so terribly wrong.