~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle

▶Chapter:13◀

There is a warning, if you don't like it, you don't have to read it.

Now with the chapter.

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Warning⚠.

3rd person pov:

Russia layed on the bed. His body, now a frail shell, trembled with every breath, each movement sending waves of pain through his battered form. The silence of the room was suffocating, a constant reminder of his isolation and the torment that had become his existence. The dim light from the small, barred window did little to lift the oppressive gloom that hung over him like a shroud.

Russia’s mind was a battlefield of despair and fleeting memories. He clung to the few moments of tenderness TR had once shown him, the gentle touches that seemed almost like a dream now. Those moments were rare and distant, overshadowed by the relentless cruelty that had since followed. He longed for the comfort of those gentle touches, even as he knew they were just another facet of TR’s manipulation.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the heavy door creaking open. TR entered the room, his presence a cold and unyielding force. Russia’s heart sank, dread washing over him at the sight of the man who had become his tormentor. TR’s expression was as inscrutable as ever, a mask of detachment that betrayed no hint of the sadistic pleasure he might have derived from Russia’s suffering.

TR approached the small table where the liquid was kept. The dark substance glistened ominously in the dim light, a symbol of the agony it would soon unleash. Russia’s body tensed involuntarily at the sight, his breath quickening with fear. He knew what was coming, and the anticipation of the pain was almost as unbearable as the pain itself.

“Please,” Russia whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling. “No more.* cough * I can’t—”

TR ignored his plea, pouring a fresh dose of the liquid with methodical precision. He approached Russia with the cup, his grip firm and unyielding as he forced the liquid into Russia’s mouth. The burning sensation was immediate, spreading through Russia’s body like wildfire. His screams echoed off the walls, a haunting testament to the excruciating pain.

As the liquid took hold, Russia’s mind spiraled into a haze of agony. His thoughts became fragmented, a disjointed mess of memories and hallucinations. In the midst of his suffering, he thought he heard voices—familiar, comforting voices that called out to him from the depths of his memory. His comrades, his family—they seemed so close, yet so impossibly far away.

But the voices were just another cruel trick of his mind, a desperate attempt to find solace in the midst of his torment. TR’s words echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of his isolation. “Everyone has moved on. You are forgotten.” The lie had taken root in his heart, eroding what little hope he had left.

His asthma, a cruel reminder of his frailty, often left him gasping for breath. Each attack was a battle for air, his lungs tightening like a vice. The lack of proper medical care only worsened his condition. He frequently coughed up blood, the sight of the crimson droplets on the cold floor a stark reminder of his deteriorating state.

One particularly severe attack left him convulsing on the floor, his body wracked with pain as he struggled to breathe. TR stood over him, initially shocked by the severity of the attack. For a brief moment, there was a flicker of something in TR’s eyes—concern, perhaps, or even guilt. He knelt down and lifted Russia’s head, trying to help him breathe easier.

“Breathe, Russia. Just breathe,” TR said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Russia’s vision blurred as he fought for air, each gasp a painful reminder of his weakened state. TR’s hand, surprisingly tender, rested on his shoulder, steadying him. It was a moment of humanity that seemed out of place in the context of his unrelenting cruelty.