Owe [A Rusger book]

[Torschlusspanik]

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"Shouldn't it of been clear from the start?"

"I suppose it should of been, but I guess I just expected everything to be fine. Denial is such a stupid thing - I hate denial. Everything would of been okay without it."

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I had already packed my bags. Inside were mostly clothes, a blanket, a pillow, medicines, all my money, spare food, and water. I took a good look around my room. My bed, albeit uncomfortable, my messy floor, my beat up walls, and my closet which had been emptied of it's contents. I sighed deeply, as much as I had a lingering, strong, burning hatred for my room, I couldn't help but feel as if I were going to miss it in a way. I knew I shouldn't, but I had been raised in these conditions, I simply do not understand how I will go about life any other way. 

I let out a deep exhale as I tried to stuff in a few extra keepsakes, such as a few photos, video tapes, and even my late Sister's old camera. I couldn't help it. I then spotted the sketchbook Russia had gave me long ago. I smiled delicately at the memory, it was warm, and it made my heart fuzzy. He had gotten it for me on my birthday,  and he had attached a note on the inside which read the following.

"For the prettiest boy on Earth."

"I hope you enjoy this sketchbook, I know you don't often get to celebrate your birthday anymore since your father won't ever sober up for it. However, I wanted you to know how loved you are, and that your birthday means a lot to me. If you weren't born, I wouldn't have a best friend. I am eternally greatful that I have met you, and I want to show that I care about you. Take care, and stay lovely (which I know you will, you're good at that)."

Those paragraphs alone never ceased to make me swoon like the lovestruck school-kid I am. I held it close to my chest, nuzzling it softly in my arms, placing it in the bag, which was stuffed to the brims, I managed to toss a few pens and pencils, and even a pack of coloured pencils. 

I finally zipped up my bag and marched downstairs, the sketchbook reviving an old confidence I used to rock before it all. I glanced over at my uncle, who was sitting at the kitchen table, head in hands, drinking some whiskey. I let out a petty 'hmph', turning my nose at such a idiotic man. 

I made my way out the door, giving it a final, brave slam. Well, since I was out of the house now, what was he going to do now? Punish me? I know just the rebuttal for that. I walked and walked, turning my head back to see if he'd come rushing out the door, whipping out my full name. But he hadn't. That made my proud face slump right back down. Damn, I really was all alone now. 

I huffed, shaking my head as I begrudgingly embarked on. I wondered, where would I sleep at tonight? There was no way in hell I was about to sleep on a park bench and get kidnapped by someone, but there's nowhere to go! Or so I thought.

I kept walking down my street, taking my mind off of my resting place, thinking about how Russia was always so sweet to me, a gentle grin spreading across my face. Bingo! A lightbulb suddenly hit! I could maybe crash at Russia's place for a while until I could get back on my feet! I picked up my pace, my trudging turning into sprints.

 However, when I arrived it was not Russia appearing at the door. It was Mr. Soviet, Russia's father. I gulped as my eyes climbed the stature of the man. He was staring right back down at me, eyes null of empathy, cold like ice but definitely not like Russia's. They were a different kind of cold. One that would leave you sickly and dead, only to never rest since your body simply can never decompose in such frigid temperatures. I shuddered under his gaze, before speaking, clearing my throat temporarily of the lump that had formed.