Written for the Hetalia kink meme, but I'm a horrible anon, and so, I post on . I'm sorry, other anons. I fail you, but- THE WORLD NEEDS MORE AMPUTATION AND RUSSIA FIC, SO I SHALL WHORE IT OUT AS SUCH. Kay. Enough caps.
He had never thought that it would have come to this. He had never thought that it would have ever happened like this. He would have never thought this, of course, because the terror was all too abstract for him to conjure within his mind as a possible outcome. There had been revolts, marches, the streets lit with fire in angry protest against the government which ran the country… But he had never imagined-
How could he have?
Imprisoned, tortured, and bleeding to death, Ivan surveyed silently in unadulterated anguish as his people rallied against him, against Russia. Were they tired of it all, were they truly unhappy? Or was it just the Social Democrats that would have them believe it so? Were their minds just manipulated, bent into thinking in such ways that went against their entire country and heritage?
Maybe it didn't matter. It would not change his outcome.
There was no way that a man could live with only one remaining limb.
There were feet against his back, and words against his ears. The very people who had been raised in his country now defiling and torturing his body. They pushed hard with the soles of their boots into his back, grinding his face into the mud to try and make his walls crumble. But Ivan knew that he would, eventually. Every wall fell, even those stabilized. But he would do so without a word.
Words were not screams.
His screams, however, came in vast supply.
It was not possible to hold it in, even if he tried. He had tried at first, when they had first kidnapped him from his place of stronghold. They had tied him up and taken him to the middle of the city, a circular pavilion. Stripped of decency and clothing, he had been put on display for all to see. To 'alleviate our suffering and the pain that you caused us', they said. Revenge does nothing, though, after all, but cause guilt.
Ivan wondered if they would feel guilty after his death.
The beatings came, those, first. He was a thing to be passed around, no longer a human being, but a sort of physical embodiment of pent up anger and suppression. And so he was the scapegoat for that resentment. He was beaten by both the hands of his people and by the tools that they used to feed themselves. He hoped that their food would forever taste like blood.
Enduring skin level physical pain in silence was hard, but it was manageable. What came next broke the barriers, and for possibly one of the first times in his life, Ivan widened his eyes in terror.
Maybe it was fitting that they used a scythe, a sickle, the symbol of the flag that their country had adorned for so long. His head hung low, eyes dull with pain and repressed urges to break down and scream. The pain that he had felt before was nothing compared to that when they lifted his head with the handle of the scythe and begun. They wanted his head to stay high so that he could watch the faces of his people as they slowly, one by one, cut his limbs off.
It was a raw sort of terror, the kind that mirrored the protagonist in the Pit and the Pendulum. It was the knowledge that you were, in fact, going to die, but… how, and when? Ivan was faced with the means, but he was not ready for the actual act of it. He was moved from a standing position to that of a laying one as they tied and strapped his arms down to a single plank of wood. There was no struggle within him, ho hope of survival in the face of absolute fear.
The feeling wasn't something that he could have easily described, nor would he have wanted to. His vision was limited to that of the sky, and he cursed it that it was not mourning for him as it should have, the clouds still low to the ground. His breath came in small, short pants as he looked wildly around at the faces of his people, pleading for one of them, any of them to help him. How could they stand back and watch with such satisfaction as he was tortured? They were such ungrateful children.
Cold took him all over, coursed through him in great waves as he tried desperately to catch breath and keep from tipping over the edge into insanity. He was, in all aspects of the fact, petrified. His body went through the symptoms of terror, but his mind was what enveloped it fully. Fear was something natural to his mind, something that he had experienced many times before, and soaked in the fundamental human desperation to survive to the fullest extent. Something within him broke, and he became instinctual as he felt the first feeling of cold, sharp metal against his thigh.
Words spewed from his mouth, screams, pleads, threats, anything, anything to keep him alive, to delay the inevitable. But his people were unwavering, and they pushed on through his pathetic attempts of survival. Their push was figurative as he felt them, all of their hands on the blade as they pushed it into his flesh.
Skin was a thin barrier, easily broken, and gave way to the hands of his people as Ivan screamed in horror and absolute anguish. It was pain beyond pain. It transcended any form of torture, of torment, of agony. It was the collective pain of his people, and the collected pain of his own life.
He could feel the blade tear through his flesh, sawing, cutting muscle and tissue, veins and the structure of his body. It was warm as blood gushed, flowing from the deep, deep gouging trench-like laceration. As the blade went farther and met bone, his screams became something that could not express the pain. The pain was something that could not be described or expressed. Such simple screams and expressions of agony were not sufficient as the blade met nerve.
As they hit bone and it became harder to saw through then such simple, easy things such as warm, flimsy flesh, the generic push and shove of the blade became a sawing motion, and the pain, if possible, was heightened. Heightened so that his screams, his cries of agony subsided as he began to taste blood in his mouth.
There were only so many screams that he held within himself.
It was a never ending concoction of terror, anguish, torture, and the sickening feeling of standing on the brink of insanity as he literally felt his leg lose connection with his body. Using the ironic expression of a double edged sword, his leg finally being cut all the way through alleviated himself of mental pain, the knowledge that it was over, but then, with it, came the realization that… it was… gone. His leg was gone, forever.
And he could feel it.
The gushing blood.
The torrents of pain, palpable in their existence as it seemed to leak out of his eyes, his throat, and leg as he screamed and sobbed and bled to death before his country.
They were no longer his people as they continued. It was no longer about revenge or what they were told, it was about sadism as they started with his other leg, sawing it off without skill. He could hear, feel, bits of flesh splat against the ground as they got caught in the blade's track and were spewed from the pivoting point of his leg. Blood sprayed as well, their movements of the blade fast and sharp, sending droplets and streams of it to splatter against his stomach and face. Ivan no longer reflected on symbolism. The only thing left in his life was pain.
He felt suddenly light as his remaining leg left him as well. He was no longer tied to the ground, and could picture his legs, detached from himself, as blood poured out of his open thighs. His arm, though, he mourned the most as it came next, and he was finally, finally left alone to suffer in something more then agony.
He was left with only his right arm and his mind.
He was left with what had been pillaged, stolen from him, and what remained was damaged beyond repair.
They were done with him, and Ivan, Russia, no longer had screams of fear or tears of agony to spare. Everything was gone. With the blood that left him, so did his pride, his mind, and everything left that he had left to cry for. Watching the clouds above him as they grew heavy with rain and his people left him, Ivan gave in.
He had thought, that if he ever were to die, he would die with pride and dignity. Naked, limbs amputated, the only thing he was left with him was what had been stripped from him. The rain finally starting to pour down on his body and cleansing, purifying his skin of the blood and adulteration, he died in silence, his limbs thrown upon his body as he was sacrificed for a gilded reason.
Anarchy would not create a democracy.
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