COUNTRYHUMANS ONESHOTS (COMPLETED)

writers block

910 words

2/11/2020

Yayyy finally a oneshot.

My book has been dying bc I have no ideas. This isn't super, but it's something.

Dying. A very simple thing, and objectively easier to understand than living. One day, your brain stops working, your heart stops beating, and you stop breathing (Other bodily functions close down, but humans seem to value those three over all else). What happens to your body doesn't matter, since you won't even be around to watch it happen.

The death of a Country, however...

Everything about a country is complex. It never just 'dies'. It gets conquered, it changes flags, old regimes are replaced with new ones, but you can never tell if a country is actually dead. It might be hiding, it might have just changed flags or even taken to a new moral ground. Death is such a faraway, silly concept to most countries.

Unfortunately, the Soviet Union was right in the middle of dying.

He began to wonder if any other country who had died felt extremely annoyed at the whole ordeal. He had better things to do than lie howling on the ground while his body crumbled around him. And his kids were crying too, which only meant more headaches later when the older children confront him about Russia. Russia was the most sensitive out of the Soviets, which made it hard for him and his father to connect. That didn't stop the young kid from screaming out in distress while desperately trying to hold his father's deteriorating body together.

Soviet's last moments were fuzzy; he thinks he might have hugged someone. After he had gone through the unpleasant process that was dying, the mild panic began to set in. Soviet tried to search his brain for anything that mentioned what happened when you died, but all he could remember was a bunch of religious hoo-ha. He quickly realized he had no body, which helped the seed of dread bloom.

He screamed out, feeling something weird happen to his feet. Then his legs, moving up his body. He felt weak, which made him angry. He tried to open his mouth and say something, but someone pressed their lips upon his. Soviet felt a burning desire to punch whoever did that in the face. So he did, and his fist collided with bones. No skin, just bones.

His own bones ached, and soon that ache turned into flat out pain. He felt his bones being undone, in a way. Like the hard outer shell was peeled away so someone could scoop all his marrow out. All the while the skeleton-human-thing kept kissing him, which made him furious. It kept him somewhat distracted by the pain. His bones stopped hurting, and the lips were taken away from his own. He could see his bones now. He felt very cold and wet, almost unnaturally so.

He was being pushed under a strongly moving river. Except there was no river, just the feeling of icy water stabbing into his skin like millions of needles. He was quickly pulled out, instantly feeling angry fire burn his skin. Though, it felt like skin had already been burnt to numbness. The fire grew stronger, making him scream when it got white-hot. Then it stopped, he felt normal. His skin was there, that's good.

The wind blew around him. Like everything else in this godforsaken place, it hurt. He was being lifted up, it was still pitch black but he was going somewhere. He wondered where and remembered he was dead, so maybe heaven? Or a new body? He didn't know.

"Oh, hello. Do you want some?"

Soviet opened his eyes. He was looking down at a small child wearing a sailor uniform. He didn't recognize their flag. She was sitting down at a short, pastel-blue table in a room of a similar color. She held a tea-pot and was pouring nothing into an expensive set of china. Stuffed animals sat around on mini-chairs.

"No," Soviet said coldly.

"Oh, come on. You have to be hungry," she said, frowning as she poured another cup of nothing.

"Tea makes you less thirsty," Soviet kept his tone. "How old are you?" She shrugged and poured another cup. She offered it to him. "No."

"The other ones always felt better with it, try it," she said.

"Others?"

"I'll tell you when you drink it." Soviet groaned at the child's stubbornness. He finally wedged himself into a small chair -his knees went up to his face, it was ridiculous- and took a sip from the toy cup. Instantly he tasted sbiten, the way Belarus made it. He felt a pang of something, but the borderline homesick feeling was quickly pushed away.

"So? Who are the others?"

The girl looked away from him, sinking into her chair guiltily. "They died."

Soviet choked on his drink. "What?"

"They made me mad, and then they started screaming, and then-" the girl looked wide-eyed at the table, her fingers digging into her arms. Her breath became ragged, and the sbiten began tasting metallic like blood.

Soviet put down the drink. He tried to look around the room for any clue of where he was. There was no lettering anywhere, no flags, no nothing. Soviet almost screamed in frustration.

But the little girl would get upset. Then he'd die.

"I'm going to try to be nice to you. In return, you will allow me to live here," Soviet said sharply. The little girl looked up and smiled.

"Dad?"

Soviet cringed at his parental failures. "Never."