Trust is Dangerous- Russia x Germany

My Beginning

"Wow," Ukraine commented, looking over the tiny hill where the apple tree was growing. The fields then kept on going, along with the dirt and rock trail, the wheat replaced with waist high grasses on each side. In the distance a hawk cawed, and I heard the wind in the apple tree sound like thunder next to us. Some abandoned construction equipment along with the neck of a rusty crane were laying in the grass, weathered away by the changing seasons.

Just two days ago father expanded our run from the edge of the forest to the lone apple tree on the other side of it. Me, Ukraine and Belarus weren't used to it yet, and it was challenging for us to do it. As soon as the route got easier, father made it go farther, so we'd get used to challenge. He ran in the morning before us, and then he would wake us up, shower and make breakfast. Belarus would usually help him, since she had no problem getting up at four in the morning either. I slumped against the rough bark of the tree, and Ukraine helped as he got entangled in nettles. Unlike me he had no allergic reaction to them, but when I even grazed them, my skin would go from red to pink, and it would puff up painfully and unevenly. Luckily, father was used to me and my skin reaction and had a balsamic cream in the medicine cabinet.

"The winds are nice," Ukraine commented. "I would stay here longer, but I want to eat."

"Okay, I wasn't planning to linger," I pushed myself from the tree, and the wind blew in my face, both refreshing and calming. We headed down back home, through the forest, the fields and the silence, the only thing that was singing was the breeze and it created a beautiful symphony of the wheat and wind, roaming on and on to the edges of the universe. I stopped at our tiny garden on the west side of the house, where the shade of the manor obscured the sprouts of carrots, beets, potatoes, as well as our cabbages, melons and one beaten up corn stalk that was picked clean before we could even see the kernels come up. Horse corn, said Mr. UK, when he looked at our garden one summer day. It was a very small one, with only four sprouts of each vegetable, and one of cabbage and two melons. One of the doors opened and I heard a female voice come out.

"Russia, come on," it cried out. "You'll go hungry!"

"Да Беларусь," I yelled back. "Дай минуту. Я думаю."

"Thinking is for stupid idiots," Belarus laughed. "Papa said so."

"I guess I'm a stupid idiot." I went back to the front of our home and Belarus hopped in front of me. I left my shoes in the mud room and then grabbed my ushanka from the table, and went over to the kitchen which faced the south and was always sunny and inviting, with a large window spanning wall to wall. I washed my hands at the kitchen sink, the water scalding hot and aggravating my recent cuts from yesterday's run where I slipped on a rock from exhaustion. Father preferred to use hot water for dish cleaning and mostly everything else but showering, which he used almost ice. The kitchen table was at the far end away from the window, but near a large picture of two people with their backs turned, herding about a dozen white geese back to the big faded red barn in the distance on the outskirts of a white birch forest with a fenced off perimeter of the farmland. The two people wore denim overalls and held sticks, one of them, the younger by the looks of his height was with a straw hat, while the other held a basket in the crook of his arm. The whole picture gave me a warm feeling of fading childhood and a hazy dream. The picture overlooked the table, which had a stained white cloth with intricate red patterns on the borders. Since the table was moved against the wall, there was just enough room to fit everyone who lived in the house at the moment. Father sat at one end, and I sat at the other. Belarus sat next to father, Ukraine in the middle and I was stuck with Kazakhstan at my end. By the looks of it, Belarus and father have already set the table and she wore a harassed look on her face, since I was taking my time. Everyone was waiting patiently for me, but it seemed that patience was leaking. I sat down and we did our prayer before our meal. Only us children did it, since father did not believe and was an atheist. The rest of us were Orthodox Christians, and we took our beliefs into our own hands, so did our grandfather, who taught us. After the last line, Belarus looked at our father who nodded, and we proceeded to eat. We all ate in silence, as usual, until father started to drink his coffee and Kazakhstan got talkative.