Tʜᴇ Isʟᴀɴᴅ Iɴ Bᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ

Tʜᴇ Fᴏᴏʟ Iɴ Mᴀɴ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5

The endless air screamed nothing. One world half awake, the other asleep as it turned adagio, feet planted and head down.

Where was he? Why was he here? He didn't want to remember the answers, though his mind carried the weight of knowing.

Part of him wanted to wake back in the desolation of his home. Safe from the prying eyes of people who thought he was admirable. What would it take to disappear? How could he leave this place? A world of desperate solitude surrounded him. He was isolated without a word to say in it. This was not his choice. How nice a world it would be, without him. An existence of man and beast not fractured by which he stood.

Russia lay awake, morning at his window, filtering in with a full smile. But he didn't care, nothing mattered to him. He couldn't bare to get up, this day was like the rest, nothing had changed. His heart was pushing down on him so hard he thought it would shatter his ribs. Maybe it would, at least then he would have a reason to be in pain. But alas, he didn't. He was blessed really, his position in life favoured many a fate that descended on those not so fortunate.

And yet he was throwing it all away, choosing to spend the day in bed, refusing to meet the waking world. How pathetic. How very pathetic.

Everyone else can do it, and yet he couldn't. He felt trapped within himself. As if his cloudy vision was a prison for his corporeal form, so unwilling to let him be as it choked him from the inside out. His deep Catoptric Tristesse gnawing at his mind every day. Keeping him locked in his home for every hour that passed.

The worst part about being here is that he was unable to hide. Everyone on this godforsaken island was so intrigued by him. Their interest delved deep and fascination prevalent. They were far in limerence, like he was some sort of gift for them.

To him at least, that was hurtful. Not because it was somehow objectifying. But because it was completely and utterly false. How could he ever believe someone thought he was amazing, when he hated everything about himself? If he could transcend this plane he would. But his legs had long since been glued down, and his mind stapled to the paper of air, denying him his freedom from pain.

Russia brought his hands up to cover his eyes. What time was it? How was he supposed to tell? He hadn't seen a clock when he first walked into the room. So how was he supposed to see one now that he was unable to see the difference between what was real, and what was not? His mind felt a million miles away, and he rubbed his dry eyes with a painful twitch. He realised he was losing himself further.

How could someone so meagre be such a waste of space?

It was absurd, it was fallacious.

The world would be better off without him. You would be better off without him. Oh, that's right. You. He hadn't understood at first, why the UN was so infatuated with you. And yet he saw it now. He saw it the first moment he laid eyes on you. You were such a sight for sore eyes he wondered what he did to deserve even seeing such a beauty.

He would get up, he should get up. But beyond his covers would be the very person that was on his mind. The difference between you and him was so prevalent it hurt to imagine being near you. Tainting your Elysian mind with his presence.

What would you say if you saw him like this? Lying awake in his bed. Hiding from everything that breathed. Protecting his life from the horrors of his mind.

Perhaps you would find it weird. Then attempt to get him up by telling him he was being a weirdo. Just laying there, breathing by a whisker and without a sound being uttered. Without reason, Russia brought a hand up and stared at his knuckles. His red skin a tad bit darker around his protruding bones.