Чернобыль = Chernobyl

I learned about this disaster in Physics before the Christmas break, and I haven't been able to stop thinking of this story since.

I actually did research for this, but if I got anything wrong, please correct me.

He found strands of hair on his pillow.

Blonde hair, unmistakably his. It was falling out, piece by golden piece. He held it up to the light, let the glow illuminate the sickly strands. A horribly hollow, manic laugh rang out through the cold and empty room, thick crimson blood ran down his chin.

He was so hard, so empty inside. When was the last time he’d really laughed at anything? When was the last time the cold he kept inside had thawed enough for him to experience happiness? He hurt and hurt, and prayed for it to get better. It never did.

They were dying, starving, in agony, their country eating away at their bones, eating away at his bones. He ran his gloved hands over his head, throwing the thinning hair up in the air and dancing as if it were confetti.

Slumping to the stained wooden floor, all energy spent in that short time, he laughed again though his throat burned like fresh fire. A cough fought it’s way up his raw throat and fresh blood dripped past his chapped lips.

He was so tired. Always so tired. He tried so, so hard, and nobody thanked him. What was the last thing they thanked, the first thing they blamed? Him. Russia. Their own country who had fought so fucking hard for them. Who stuck by them through everything. It terrified him how eager the people were to turn their backs on him.

If he had been capable of such displays of emotion, he was sure he’d have been sobbing to himself by now. As it was, he sat there grinning like an idiot. He’d forgotten how to cry long ago, like he’d forgotten to be happy, to feel warm.

The sun did not heat his skin like it had once, the flowers withered and died beneath his frozen fingers. He could not die, he knew that. He would be there for as long as the last of his people stayed true to their motherland. But he knew no other words to describe what had happened to him.

He had been such a happy child. Once.

His lovely, clean, cream scarf was stained a horrible burgundy.

The burgundy of his own blood. He knew from experience that blood was the hardest stain the wash clean. Even as the red faded, the stain never did. The smell stayed, the sharp tang of copper, sour and rich. It stained you forever, marking you for what you really were. Nothing but a cold blooded killer. Cold blooded, the phrase brought a small, bitter smile to his face. If anybody was cold blooded, it was him. He’d once overheard America saying that Russia’s blood didn’t clot, it iced over. He’d got America back for that, but the stinging truth of the words still bothered him, years later.

He knew what had happened to him. He knew what was wrong with him, with Russia. He could feel the radiation burn into his stomach, he could feel the inexplicable ache of his people, the people he tried desperately to protect, dying in agony. The pain was unimaginable, unbearable, so he laughed as his insides were torn up like fragile tissue paper. Blood dripped, and his muddled mind couldn’t digest where it was coming from any longer.

His weary, leaden hand found a bottle of vodka lying, half empty, on the cold floor. Slowly, he tipped the bottle back into his aching mouth. He felt the liquid fire burn through his tattered organs, and he choked, for the first time in years, he choked on the drink he loved so much. The bottle fell to the floor, shattered into so many broken pieces. Pieces that would never fit back together to be whole again.

Alone. Always alone. The cold and the ice and the everlasting snow his only constant companions. The darkness that loomed at the edges of his vision rushed in gleefully. He was so tired. So, so tired. He just needed rest, then Russia would be back, as strong as ever.

As he slipped into unconsciousness, he never heard the door open. He never heard Ukraine’s worried words or felt her helping hands. He didn’t hear her gasp, or feel her tears on his skin.

He was dead to the world.