Tʜᴇ Isʟᴀɴᴅ Iɴ Bᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ

Tʜᴇ Hᴇʟʟᴇʙᴏʀᴇ Aɴᴅ Tʜᴇ Cɪɢᴀʀᴇᴛᴛᴇ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 14

There were a lot of things you loved about your home.

The spiral staircase, the warmth, the dim lighting, the position of it. But there was one thing you loved above all the others.

It wasn't because it was better than any of them. It was simply because you chose it yourself.

The mint painting of the walls.

When you moved in all those years ago, it was all white. If you had left it like that any longer, you would have gone insane. It wasn't far from padded walls of an asylum. If anything, it was interlinked.

The blandness of what it used to be like sent you spiralling every time you awoke. The monotony of your work seemed much more cruel when it was all one colour. Dim and sad— crumbling in the corners and flaking from the sides. Drywall collapsing onto your table— cracks over the skirting board.

It took a few months for you to finish painting.

But you would never regret it.

Now you awoke to a pretty room— decked out in all the little trinkets you collected over the years, stacked in front of the colour you chose, and applied yourself.

As you opened your eyes and blinked sluggishly, you could smell a sweet aroma wafting from downstairs. A light clatter as someone moved items around.

You turned your head to face Russia's bed, he wasn't there, but his bed had been neatly made, indicating he was the one downstairs.

You rubbed your eyes as you sat up, cracking your shoulders while you pulled on your arms and stretched your back out. Letting out a tired yawn.

You got up slowly, taking all the time you had to wake yourself up as you dressed and brushed out your hair. Constantly rubbing sleep from your tear ducts, your eyes adjusting to the morning Sun gleaming through the window.

You descended the stairs with uneven steps, leaning heavily on the railing as you went.

Russia was standing by the sink, hunched over something on the island in front of him. A sweet aroma filled the room— like sugar and nectar kneaded together in a palmed dough. He stood with his sleeves rolled up and his hat placed neatly on the counter beside him.

"Morning." You say as you enter the kitchen, waltzing up to the table and pulling a chair for yourself— sitting haphazardly in your dreary state. Russia turned with a phlegmatic smile. He looked utterly exhausted, and though you didn't want to say it aloud, it was the only thing you found you could concentrate on.

"Perfekt timing." He chirped, turning back to grab a plate of something, before he brought it over to you.

You couldn't help but let out an unexpected gasp. Your eyes wide— mouth-watering as you stared at the plate of freshly cooked pancakes, whipped cream dolloped on the side with maple syrup drizzled over blackberries sprinkled on top.

"What's all this for?" You gushed excitedly, lifting your knife and fork as he brought you a cup of tea along with it all. Before sitting down in front of you— lighting up one of the cigarettes you allowed him to take.

"A zank you." He said— smiling into his palm as he turned away— realising you had noticed the part he took the most time on.

It was a hard thing for him to do. He could hardly see when he wrote it out through the tears and sleep deprivation. The world around him seemed fallacious as he stood in the early morning light, placing his pride in the dark, so he may repay some kind of debt he felt he owed to you.