RusCan: Russia's Depression.

Chapter 4

The small rays of sunlight slid past his broken blinds and hit upon the eyelids of the large country. He didn't want to get up so soon, so he turned over so the light would no longer torture him. He sighed quietly, staring at the empty picture frames that hung on his walls. The picture frames he had received as anonymous gifts to keep his memories had no memories to be stored within them. Russia then started to focus on his surroundings. He felt the way his blanket had fallen over his body. The smell from old vodka bottles filled his nostrils and had an urge. The undying urge to feel something. If he could just make it to the bathroom. The silence was interrupted was the creaking of his bedroom door. It was shrieking in his ears and he stiffened up.

"Russia...are you awake yet?" a soft voice asked him from the other side of the room. He couldn't decide whether or not to respond to it. However, he did relax when he recognized it as Canada's voice. 

"I assume not..." the other spoke quieter, but continued, "I hope you'll hear me still. I'm going to go get some groceries for you. I finished washing your clothes and cleaning up a little bit an..." 

A voice in Russia's head drowned out the sweet, quiet voice of the other, resulting in a muffled sound. He couldn't focus on him. 

"He's leaving you as they all did before"

Russia mentally shook his head as he heard his front door shut. Tears started to fall down his cheeks and the soft pitter-patter of the tears hitting the pillow were now the only sounds that now filled his ears. He slowly got up and moved the blinds so he could see. Canada was already driving off on the only trail that led anywhere. His vision began to blur as the tears filled up his eyes. As he blinked, they all fell once more, his eyes stinging as they followed the Canadian's car drive away. 

"He's not coming back to you" 

The horrible voice continued to spit in its horrendous explanations to the Russian. He already began to feel like he was losing the only 'friend' he has made for a long time. He wanted him to never leave the house and stay with him. He knew he was way too clingy for anyone to stand. 'Did I chase him away by not being a welcoming host? Was it because my house was a mess? Was he saying that stuff to get away?'

The questions circled around his head.

He got up, slowly. He walked back to where his little friend was. His mirror showed him how red his eyes were and made him watch as he removed his scarf and bandages to reveal scabs from the healing cuts upon his throat. 'If I could make it a little deeper then...' he thought. He was scared. He searched and found his razor. Right now he wanted to feel and he sliced his throat The pain made him relax. He cut in a second time. He started shaking as his hand sliced again and again. His throat was already covered in fresh, bleeding wounds and they stung slightly. But it wasn't enough. He pulled up his pant leg to slice his thigh. The pain felt so nice. He went crazy. He continued to cut. 1...2...3...4... and soon he lost count of how many. The blood was already starting to thicken as it flowed down his pale leg, staining it red. He was wearing black pants so he just rolled the pants back down and soon the pants were sticking to the blood uncomfortably. He ignored the feeling as he half-assed cleaned the wounds on his neck and bandaged those with a fresh piece of gauze. He felt better. He sighed and looked into the old mirror. He put the razor blade in its safe spot and leaning on the counter.

He put on a fake smile. It looked so unnatural to him. His dull, reddened eyes stared him down. He hated this. He put on his scarf and walked out. He noticed that there was a note on the dusty, old television screen. He slowly pulled it off the screen and read it. 

"Hey, I assume you found this. I found myself talking to you in your room while you were asleep. Anyway, I'll be back in an hour or so. I cleaned your kitchen and folded up your clothes. I hope you're up for more pancakes and fruits!"