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4. A (Supposedly but Not Really) "Quick Trip"

4. A (SUPPOSEDLY BUT NOT REALLY) "QUICK TRIP"

Three days. Three. Bloody. Days.

Wanna know why I was so mad about three days?

It was because that was how long we'd been in Russia's household.

For the past three days, Arielle and I had been A) confined to a bedroom unless we had to go to the bathroom or eat, B) constantly watched by the Baltics and a girl Arielle told me was Belarus, C) resentfully glared at every time said Belarus watched us, D) bored out of our freaking minds with nothing to do but schoolwork (which, for once, I actually finished), E) foiled twice when we'd tried to escape, and F) completely terrified.

I groaned abruptly, throwing down Hamlet and storming over to the window. I stared out at the snowy Russian landscape, angrily kicking the wall. "God!"

"Umm, calm down, Merrie," Arielle began.

"No! I will not calm down!" I raged, completely snapped. "I am sick and tired of being imprisoned and not knowing what's gonna happen to us, I'm tired of that bitch glaring at us, I'm tired of Russian food, and most of all, I'm tired of having nothing to do but freaking schoolwork!"

Arielle let out a snicker slip out; she hurriedly clapped a hand over her mouth.

"It's not funny!" I protested, pacing around the room at about a hundred miles per hour. "I just—" I threw myself on the messy bed we'd had to share so far. "I just—ugh!" I let out a frustrated, inhuman shriek and punched one of the pillows repeatedly.

"Geez. What did that pillow do to you?" Arielle sat down heavily next to me. She was as used to these rare temper tantrums as I was to her occasional panic attacks. "Just breathe, Merrie. Breathe and try not to murder that poor pillow."

I had to crack a smile at that one, my frustration starting to dissipate. See, I have this problem with anger and frustration: I tend to bottle it up. And bottles aren't limitless, so my frustrations would metaphorically overfill sometimes, and I'd have these little explosions. Being ticked and frustrated for three days just about did the trick, as you can see.

Unfortunately, here I had no therapist. Here I had no punching bag or swimming pool or exercising stuff to relieve my anger. Here I had to do it on my own. And I would.

"U-um, Meredith, Arielle, Mr. Russi—Braginsky—w-would like t-to see y-y-you," Lithuania stammered nervously from the open door—how had I not noticed the open door?

"And if we choose not to go?" I asked him sourly. I knew the answer, and I had known since the first time I'd said it—before dinner on the first night.

"P-please." Lithuania shuddered slightly. "H-he is not in the good mood this morning. J-just g-go with it."

Huh. So maybe I didn't know the answer this time.

Arielle followed Lithuania out into the hallway, and after a moment of hesitation, I followed, shivering as the freezing air of the hall hit me in the face.. Stupid, cold Russia. Stupid Belarus. Stupid stupid stupid us for getting caught.

"I s-swear, B...Natalia gave us short-sleeved dresses to deliberately murder us," I mumbled into Ari's side (we were huddling for warmth).

"D-don't say that," chided Lithuania nervously, looking about. "She's not that bad. And the walls are having the ears, as they s-say." He came to the front door and opened it.

I gaped as Lithuania gestured for us to go outside. "Y-you're letting us go? Just like that?!"

"Not quite, sunflower," Russia's voice sounded from outside.