I'm Not a whole person, and I Don't Think I Ever Will Be. || RUSAME

1; You Wear Your Ruins Well

    Things that were little months ago were not so little anymore, things like not eating, and being up until the morning sun rises, the way that blank eyes glance around the room looking for something real, the way t-shirts and jeans didn't fit as well as they did before, before when all was little.

Simple, red gashes formed on his arm as though they had been painted, and the ichor of mankind poured from them as though it were no more than watercolor. The blade glided along smoothly against his red skin, the serrated edges cutting deep into his flesh as blood coats it and runs down his arm, dripping from his elbow, pooling onto the floor.

Millions of thoughts, An ultimate feeling of Guilt, and only One Mind.

His blank eyes wandered to the ceiling. Cold, glazed over dull sapphires that seemed to have nothing but sorrow residing in them. Blade in one, blood pooling in the other. Shifting figures haunting, never solid, never gone, and forever. Watching intently, like a hawk does a mouse that had long-since lost hope of survival.

A raging storm rumbled overhead, haunting the skies like a wraith in old time folktales. Arrow-headed drops that struck the window inciting nothing but a soft sound that could either soothe or encourage sadness.

There was nothing to describe this feeling, no word, no song, no thought. 

-

Russia stayed still for a couple more minutes, his mind vacant for just a couple, more, minutes. Eventually he stood up, the blood running along his arms and the small blood pool that was on his palm had dried. He set the blade down on the beside table, it glowed in the lazy honey-swathed rays of the sun that peered through the curtains. He opened the window as a gust of wind entered the room, blowing against the curtains as an empty vodka bottle that lay on the ground moved slightly with clinking noises.

He shoves his arms into a long brown coat that causes a stinging only there for a split second before he puts on a fluffy ushanka to protect against the harsh wind and rain outside that pour unto the town as if Zeus's archers had unleashed upon the world a war with water. Opening his door slowly and taking his sweet time walking down those stairs and towards the outside world that is shadowed by a gray blanket.

Russia begins to walk in a certain direction, a path that is engraved and burned into the back of his mind like a disgusting parasite. Staring straight ahead, crossing roads with no thought to the dangers it may hold as the white, frost-scaled dragon once again soared above like so many times before, swooping occasionally to deliver a harsh, crisp breeze or barrage of rain, and scaring away any life the summer had nourished.

The rain cries with you. unlike people.

A car passes by, It's headlights illuminate the droplets that fly as it drives through a puddle, lightning flashes and a couple seconds later thunder rumbles. A buzzing noise emits from the streetlamps overhead and the leaves rustle, there's noise everywhere.

Ice cracking beneath his feet.

He reaches his destination and pulls open the glass doors and merges with the crowd of people, Kazakhstan runs up beside Russia, cheery attitude clear. 
 "Сәлем, Ресей! (Hello Russia!)" He chirped, the tips of his dull gold wings flay out and shine in perfection.
 "Привет, Казахстан. (Hello Kazakhstan.)" He responds with a flat tone, shoving his hands into his pockets as more thunder rumbles overhead causing those shimmering golden wings to retract, the ends curled like a bug after death.

"Жұмыс күні болды, әрекетке кел.. (Don't be so gloomy! It's only the first day..)" Kazakhstan says again with a sing song voice, his wings pull in even more as he whispers the second part to himself. Russia takes notice and places a hand on his shoulder and grips it tightly before shoving it down his pocket again, thunder rumbles once more.
"Рахмет сізге.. (Thank you..)" He whispers again, a more glowing look on his face after.