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Lithuania feels the beating before it comes.
He feels it in the way his body trembles, and in his heart. It beats too fast and too heavily, as though it’s on the verge of breaking through his ribcage, so hard it feels painful.
He feels it in the way his head keep spiraling, unable to focus on one thing for even just a few seconds, because his thoughts constantly stray back to what he did wrong now, and what he knows is just about to come.
He feels it in the way his hands shake, so badly he can barely write a legible sentence or hold a teacup without spilling its contents everywhere.
When Russia’s footsteps become audible, he’s pacing around his bedroom, which he shares with Estonia and Latvia, with his hands firmly clasped behind his back, arms stiff and rigid. His eyes dart around the dusty, wooden floorboards as the trembling becomes worse in unison with Russia’s footsteps becoming louder and louder, until the door opens
Russia stands tall and broad-shouldered, so much so that he takes up most of the doorframe in which he’s standing. It takes the air out of Lithuania’s lungs.
Lithuania stops abruptly, and stares at Russia like a deer caught in headlights. He knows exactly how this goes. Russia will call him into his office with an innocent yet threatening smile. He will follow, and once there, he will be beaten until blood stains the carpet and there will be yet another mess to clean.
But Russia isn’t smiling. Lithuania thinks he might actually collapse upon the floor.
“Lithuania.”
His feet begin moving on their own, and he remembers how the red in the Polish flag symbolizes bravery, something he never had, or at least never had enough of. A vision forms in his mind.
The wheat fields in the polish countryside might be swaying in the wind right now. They might also not, or maybe they’re trying not to buckle under the raindrops because it could also be raining at this time. But it’s certain that they were swaying when Lithuania and Poland were last there together.
“For the next, like, 20 kilometers in that direction, there’s only wheat. We might come across, rye or barley if we keep walking though.” Poland said, as he pointed west.
Lithuania doesn’t remember where they were or what they were doing there. What he did remember, was Poland. The setting sun forming a halo-like shape around Poland, making him almost glow while also shining light upon the golden wheat fields. He remembers the creaking door of the house into which they went, after having walked for so long that the moon was visible on the night sky. He can’t recall what it was, but something really funny must have happened because he remembers laughing so hard he fell to the floor, and Poland reaching his hand out to help him up, visibly straining to contain his own amusement.
He misses the time when his body was bruised and aching from laughter and having too much fun, rather than from the metal pipe or the crowbar or whatever weapon Russia had gotten his hands on now, striking him at least twice a week like clockwork.
But he also remembers hesitating to take Poland’s hand, his thoughts tainted with dread because something felt different, and he knew exactly what it was. He just couldn’t accept it.
It’s the same kind of dread he feels now, as he approaches Russia’s office, knowing that he’s walking himself into a trap. Just as he can’t turn around now and escape the beating, he couldn’t leave Poland and escape the heartbreak when they would inevitably separate.
“Lithuania. I’ve put up with you for too long.”
Russia’s words make Lithuania go cold. He may be pale already, but he knows he must look like a ghost right now, with how the dark walls, illuminated by a small gas lamp and the remainder of the day’s sunlight, contrast his pallid skin. He doesn’t dare respond.
“You simply make too many and too big mistakes. I’ve been merciful to you, and I’m sure you’re appreciative, but no amount of gratitude can make up for what you did today.”
Lithuania tilts his head and stares at the patterned carpet on the floor. It’s hard to keep his composure, but he manages to keep the trembling to a minimum, and the tears about to form in his eyes at bay. It’s kind of pathetic, he thinks, to be on the verge of tears before Russia even lifts his hand. The thought leaves faster than it came when a metal letter-weight strikes his back, so unexpectedly that it almost knocks him off balance.
A burning sensation ripples throughout his upper back to his right shoulder blade, aching but not quite unbearable. It’s alright. He’s fine for now.
There’s an odd gap of silence and lack of movement, which is just enough time to let Lithuania breathe and relax his muscles. The damage is lessened when the muscles aren’t tense, but it requires intense focus to keep them that way. He knows this by experience.
The letter-weight strikes again, and he bites the inside of his cheek so hard he can taste metal in his mouth. It hurts more than the last hit. Lithuania still makes no sound.
He imagines himself somewhere else, and dreams of yet another distant memory which he so badly wishes he could experience once more.
In the Moniuszko Auditorium, which is in Warsaw, there’s a stage that stands 34 meters tall. It’s completely useless information, but it was something Poland told him, and because of that, he never forgot it. That day, Lithuania and Poland were watching a play in that very same gigantic theater. Out of the many rows of velvet seats, the two were placed at the very front, and as it turned out, this was not by chance.
“Psst… Liet…”
Lithuania turned to face Poland. The bright shine of the stage lights made his facial features seem dramatic and harsh, compared to daylight.
“Have you ever, like, tried turning around and looking at all the people behind us?”
Poland and Lithuania twisted their bodies at the same time to look at the crowd. It was fascinating to see them all. Many different people. Some women and some men, some alone and some in pairs, some wealthy and some not so much, but for that brief moment, they all had one thing in common. Each face had the same enthralled gleam in their eyes, gazing dreamily out at the actors and actresses performing their art. He wondered why this idea had never come to him before.
Lithuania tore his eyes from them, and focused on Poland, who was still captivated by the sight. The play didn’t even matter anymore. He wasn’t sure if it ever did in the first place, but either way, he began studying Poland, hoping to etch his image permanently into his mind, in order to never forget. Today, he has a suspicion that he wouldn’t have forgotten even without doing anything. He did always have a good memory.
That’s not a purely good thing, though. There are some things he wishes he could forget, like the uncomfortably familiar fury which flashes in Russia’s eyes every time he lands a hit on Lithuania. It’s burned into the back of his head at this point, haunting him to the point he struggles to sleep at night. It doesn’t help that he sees it so often, including at this very moment, as Russia raises his arm, letter-weight in hand, and with the other placed on Lithuania’s shoulder, swings.
The air is quite literally taken out of his lungs, and Lithuania can’t breathe. He has now reached a point where hypothetically, fighting back would start becoming difficult. It’s hypothetical because unlike Poland, he never had the strength stand up to Russia. The question of whether things would be different if he did, lingers in his mind.
Russia swings again, and this time, it knocks the brunette to the ground. The crack of a bone is barely audibly, but nevertheless present. A rib or two have definitely been broken by now, and it’s agonizing. Lithuania involuntarily groans, ending the silence which he tried so hard to maintain for as long as possible.
“Get up.” His voice is remorseless.
His movements are sluggish, his beaten body struggling to keep up with the order. But Russia evidently refuses to accept that, judging by how he roughly picks Lithuania up by the collar and pulls him to his feet again. It’s in a manner so harsh that he gasps, completely reflexive because he knows, along with anyone else living in Russia’s house, that there is nothing Russia hates more than noise.
“This won’t do,” Russia says, looking at the letter-weight in his hand, and then at the beaten man in front of him. “Wait. Stay here.”
It’s only after the door closes and his footsteps grow faint that Lithuania dares move a single muscle in his body. He lets out a shaky breath which he definitely knew he was holding, his hands fly up to his ribcage, and he hunches over slightly. It’s a virtually futile attempt at soothing the stabbing pain at his side, but there’s nothing else he can do.
As he glares at the grandfather clock on the wall opposite him, ticking slowly and methodically, his thoughts drift off somewhere else, to a house in the outskirts of Vilnius.
The house Lithuania lived in back then was considered tiny for a nation. It had a thatched roof, pale yellow walls, wooden doors that creaked all the time, and it was located in an old district. The buildings were old. Not the inhabitants.
As always, Poland was there. This time, in Lithuania’s living room, sat across him with his legs crossed and a confident smirk on his face. Everything he did seemed to radiate self-assuredness, and it was the things that made him stand out.
“Liet, I was thinking, do you wanna, like, write chain letters and send them to high-ranking political figures?”
It was a horrible idea. That sort of behavior is what gets people in big trouble, especially considering the demographic it targeted. Yet, in the face of the piercing green eyes which seemed to look straight into Lithuania’s soul, reading it like an open book, he couldn’t refuse. It was difficult to say no to Poland, and he felt sort of weak in his presence. It came to no one’s surprise that he agreed to this request.
“I have work tonight, so like, we’ll do it tomorrow, right?”
It wasn’t a question. He still answered.
“Yeah.”
Shortly after that, blonde hair fluttered in the evening wind and a smile graced Poland’s lips as he said goodbye and left. The door shut behind him and Lithuania distinctly remembers staring it for no reason at all. He stayed that way for minutes, just looking at it vacantly. He could almost picture it opening, a certain someone re-appearing, and entering. Except, the door is gradually morphing into the one in Russia’s office, and someone is indeed re-appearing and entering, only, it’s not at all who he wants it to be.
He snaps into as straight of a position as is possible with his physical condition, and his expression turns sharp, bracing himself for whatever living nightmare is about to befall him.
Russia is smiling when he walks in, but he seems oddly relaxed and it’s obvious he’s hiding something behind his back.
Lithuania knits his eyebrows slightly as he tries to figure out this strange behavior. This has never happened before. Russia has never gone from furious during a beating, to… oddly calm? He feels like he’s witnessing America eat a vegetable right now.
Less than a second is what it takes for Lithuania’s heart to drop to the floor and every ounce of confusion become pure horror, as the outline of a tap is visible just above Russia’s shoulder. He may have felt weak in back in Vilnius, but it is nothing compared to the inferiority and terror he feels now. This time, he can’t hide it. The beads of sweat forming on his forehead are visible, and so are his jagged breaths and the twitches of his body he can’t seem to stifle.
“I think this is better suited for you, Lithuania.”
Russia takes the metal pipe out from behind his back and displays it to him, in a similar manner to that of a father showing a surprise gift to his youngest child.
“Ta-da!”
Why did he always have to act so innocent at the worst imaginable times? It sickens Lithuania to no end. If there were any colour left in his face, he would have turned green with disgust. He currently has no time to be disgusted, though, as bigger things occupy his worries. Such as the fact that he knows this metal pipe will soon be covered in blood, and all of it will be his own.
For the first time in years, he looks Russia in the eyes. It feels like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t, something he isn’t allowed to see. He doesn’t break eye-contact, even as Russia raises the pipe above his head with both his hands, still smiling, and strikes.
It lands on Lithuania’s shoulder, and his right arm is rendered instantly incapacitated. As surges of stabbing anguish gush through it, from his shoulder all the way down to his fingertips, a yelp escapes his throat. He falls backwards, clutching one arm with the other, barely keeping his head from hitting the floor.
Russia doesn’t pick him up. He doesn’t say anything at all, actually. He only raises the metal pipe once more, ready to strike again.
Lithuania can’t help but flinch before the impact is made. This time, it’s his stomach which is affected. By now, he has given up on trying not to squirm. He writhes and twists his body in discomfort, groaning in the process. His eyes feel wet, and he lies there, helpless against the perpetrator of this violence, who kneels down to face him.
“Did I just see you trying to dodge?”
He didn’t try to dodge. He really didn’t. He shakes his head as much as he can, which isn’t much, gritting his teeth while doing so.
Russia stands up and frowns. He’s quiet and still for a moment, before speaking up.
“I don’t appreciate a liar. You should know that.”
It comes so quickly that Lithuania barely has time to register it. The metal pipe hits him directly in the upper-left side of his forehead, with a force so strong it could shatter brick. He lets out a scream, piercing, raw, and guttural. He knows it can probably be heard all across the house, but there’s no time to think about that because he can’t see out of one of his eyes and the agony is beyond unbearable. It’s far more excruciating than anything he has ever endured, and the aches of his other injuries seem miniscule compared to this.
He barely finishes the scream when another blow hits. His remaining vision is blurry, his mind is foggy, and every part of his flesh is in anguish. The blows are continuous, and hard, but for each one that occurs, the pain seems more and more numbed. As Lithuania blinks, a wave of disorientation washes over him, bringing a thought with it.
It was about the time he and Poland were separated. A rough hand held his wrist as he was dragged away from the giggling man laying on the cold ground, but for a split second, he swore he could see a twinge of sadness in him. He doesn’t know if he was just imagining it, delusional in his intense longing for Poland’s affection, but it’s a memory he desperately clings to, because if it is real, it means that Poland cared.
Poland cared.
Lithuania opens his eyes. Russia is still there, pipe in hand, which, as per his predictions, is covered in blood. Drenched, even. The office reeks of metal and it’s about then that he realizes he’s still screaming. Is it the same scream as before, or different one? There’s no sound coming out of his throat, though, and then his brain fails him because he’s too dazed and exhausted to bother wondering why, or even attempt to come up with an answer.
Russia is becoming increasingly aggressive. He’s picking up the pace and using more of his strength. However, it doesn’t matter anymore.
Another blink, and Lithuania returns to his past in Warsaw.
It’s just a hug. That’s it. The whole memory is just a hug. One of the rare ones he received from Poland. He recalls being surprised when he was pulled into it, but he didn’t want to let go either. When the hug was broken, he noticed how Poland’s touch seemed to linger on his skin, a gentle reminder of the person he loved so deeply.
Again, Lithuania is pulled back into reality. By what, he has no idea, but right now, he doesn’t really know anything. Russia continues to beat him. A minute passes, then three, then nine, then 18, and then he has no idea because it’s incredibly difficult to estimate time when he keeps fading in and out of consciousness.
He sees Russia abruptly stopping, turning around, and walking away. He thinks he hears Estonia’s name being called. It’s barely audible to him, since his senses feel muffled, like being underwater, but he must have heard correctly because it doesn’t take long for both Estonia and Latvia to come bursting through the door, stopping in their tracks when they see him.
His first thought is that they look horrified. That’s saying a lot considering he’s half blind and can hardly see the hands of the grandfather clock 3 meters away from him.
Estonia drops the medical supplies he was holding. He kneels beside Lithuania empty-handed, and Lithuania knows why. For once, during the past hour or so, there’s something he knows for certain, and is absolutely sure of.
He knows he’s going to die.
The blood-soaked carpet and the floorboards around him, stained scarlet, will become his death bed. It’s cold and it’s not where he wants to die, but it could have been much worse. Death brings an odd sense of peace with it, he thinks. There is no war in his mind, and for the first time in decades, his body relaxes completely. He feels free.
Lithuania smiles weakly at Latvia and Estonia, who each sit by his side. Latvia is very visibly holding back tears, and Estonia is looking at him, sorrow lacing his features. It’s almost as if he has already begun mourning. Everything is quiet.
One last image slips into Lithuania’s mind. It’s the familiar sight of someone he used to know. Someone, who was a wonderful experience. He has had many regrets in his life, and made many mistakes, but knowing Poland is not one of them.
He takes one final breath, and then his body gives up once and for all.