25 Ways Of Dying (CountryHumans RusAme)

Murder

America sat up again. He patted his chest like he'd done before, his heart beating fast, and observed his surroundings. He sat in a treehouse. A small one, at that - it had nearly nothing in it, but a small book on different types of jungle animals. Russia read that kind of stuff? America didn't know that. Then again, America knew virtually nothing about Russia.

"Hey!" America shouted at the top of his lungs, "Russia, where are you, man? I'm up here! In this.. treehouse thing. Russia!"

There was no kind of reply. 

America sagged against the wall of the small hut. He looked up and wondered how he would die this time, the thought gave him dread. He didn't want this to continue. It hurt, and it made him worry about what'd happen next every time.

America hummed his favourite song to himself again, waiting for the inevitable to happen. He waited, and waited, and waited. Nothing was happening. He groaned and balled his fists, rubbing the sides of his head. It was nice to have some down time, sure, but not like this - he wanted to talk to his friends. His family. His-

"America.." Croaked a familiar voice, "America, where are you?"

America hopes went through the roof, as he spoke; "I'm right here! Russia!" America waved, watching Russia, with dull eyes and an expressionless face make his way over. America furrowed his brows. Something wasn't right. The way Russia moved, dragging his feet like a bear, and slouched down, it wasn't like him.

Russia finally got to the ladder and climbed up it, taking his time, as America sat there, confusion haunting him. Once Russia was up, he stood in front of America, bending down to make sure his head didn't hit the roof, a crooked grin began to appear. America cursed to himself. This wasn't Russia.

"America~" He giggled like a hyena, "America, I'm.. I'm sorry for this.. I'm not controlling my body-"

Russia hit himself in the head, bashing into the wall, then repositioned his ushanka. He looked back to America with the grin returning. America cowered down into the corner, shrinking down, Russia pulled a blade from his pocket. America tried gulping down his fear, but this way, he'd never see Russia the same.

"Russia-"

Before America could even start speaking, Russia plunged the knife through America's chest. America cried out in pain, his shaky hands hovered around the handle of the blade as he watched blood stain his clothes. He looked up to Russia, who didn't have any trace of regret on his face.

"Russia.." America slurred. He felt dizzy, everything felt heavy. Russia watched him go limp, before being snapped back into reality. Russia looked at what he'd done to America, he covered his mouth and stumbled back. He didn't want to do this. He wondered what America would think of him afterwards.

"I'm so sorry.." Russia trembled, stumbling back. He never hit the ground, though; instead, a new place was before him. Again.