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holyluvr · 11 months

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sensitive subject & long post

***I am aware that surgical lobotomies are usually more severe in results and traumatizing in a diff way than psych malpractice, but at the end of the day— my frontal lobe was damaged by doctors that I had tried to escape from and begged for anyone to get me away from.

I don’t know anything about the woman with the lobotomy tools tattoo, but if she’s the type of crazy or deviant that has to worry about these things, I’d say the tattoo is only a bit insensitive or in bad taste due to how visible it is and anyone seeing it not having context as to why she has it. Otherwise why is it a problem? If I saw that, I would be uncomfortable, wary, and distance myself a bit more than automatically assume she thinks lobotomies are chic. I have no idea what her reason behind the tattoo was or if she’s part of a group that has real and understandable worry about this still in 2023 rather than “reclaiming” the misogyny of the 1900s. It’s a bit contradictory to say that it’s a real concern for multiple groups of people and then assume it’s not for someone else based on appearance alone— and it’s not too uncommon for someone part of a minority group to reclaim symbols, imagery, words, etc that are used as violence against them. It’s really not uncommon for anyone traumatized to reclaim imagery that’s related to their trauma. If someone told me I was jumping on a trend and using psych malpractice as a style and ignored my history with psychiatric abuse or that being a possibility that I maybe don’t want to talk about, I’d be pretty annoyed and hope to God that they have personal experience themselves and aren’t just speaking out of their asses to me from what they read in books or class.

But anyway, the last few sentences of that video are the takeaway people should probably consider more, imo. It’s not about one period in history, it’s not about helping patients, it’s not about anything but doctors and lawmakers playing God and trying to erase people and traits that they deem as too “high risk” or “deviant” for society. Hence targeted minorities being included in discussion who aren’t crazy. Sure, there have been doctors who referred patients for the lobotomy or performed it with good intentions, but grabbing at outliers to derail and ignore the blatant reality of how the USA psych institution works is….not cool but a common way people respond to me anytime I bring up the subject! Because someone has to stand up for the poor, poor psychiatrists!😢

Although the surgery was given a bad reputation and restrictions, do people seriously ignore all of the stories and concerns coming from mostly psychotic or “unpredictable” or “deviant” or “complicated” patients about the cups of medication and TMS/ECT being forced on us as children, teens, people who were unable to consent at the time, or adults given terrifying ultimatums and threats if we hadn’t “consented”? Oh, but believing crazy people is difficult, so how about the stories of kids who were hospitalized by good-intending and concerned parents who then meet their child for visitation hours and realize that something is wrong, and it turns out that their child was given heavy treatment that harmed their wellbeing without guardian knowledge or consent? And how many of those children have a disorder that causes psychosis or disruptive behavior?

All of those treatments, every pill on it’s own or in safe combos, TMS & ECT, and even ABA therapy can be used as a helpful tool in treatment. But they can also be used incorrectly with the same base motive as surgical lobotomies.

I was never the same after my second and third hospitalizations, and no one was surprised except for my new psychiatric nurse to find out a few years later that my frontal lobe had been damaged, most likely from psychotropic medications. He was mortified because he personally knew one of the doctors in my records and referred patients there. He was the first of a small handful of medical professionals that I’ve met who would actually turn their back on another doctor and be horrified and enraged for an LGBT, schizo, complicated, and unpredictable patient. I was 16 years old, and my appointment ended up going past the hours that they were open. Finally, when I had lost hope already, someone stopped typing and looked up at me when I mumbled something shitty about a past doctor. Instead of typing that I was easily agitated, aggressive, or overly pessimistic, he asked me why I called the doctor an explicit word then did what he could in his power to report it.

My psychologist also reported the same doctor 3 years later and I had legal reports filed against him, but I was still forced to be his patient again last year. If you don’t think the system is fucked up when a patient, the patient’s family, the patient’s ex-psychiatric nurse, the patients psychologist, and the patients current psychiatrist all have sent in faxes, emails, and calls to the local hospitals and crisis teams that someone should not be sent to the same hospital again for a long list of reasons that include criminal behavior and neglect…and the patient is still forced back to that hospital, back under that psychiatrist’s care….idek what to say because that sounds like a violation of rights and disregard for a patients wellbeing to me. It was in their system when I got there. The social worker immediately brought up the reports and forms and promised me nothing would go wrong this time. Lmao right. No offer of a different doctor. No offer to find me a bed in a different hospital. Just “I promise”. Because I’m insane, so who cares? They’re doing me a favor and saving my life! 🤩

No one listened to or believed me when I tried to tell them that I wasn’t scared of the pills as poison or anything paranoia related; I was afraid because I felt like I was losing parts of myself and couldn’t voice my thoughts or emotions about it; actually, my ability to speak was damaged enough to have me considered nonverbal for a while, and my movement was moreso uncontrollable spasms— I couldn’t do anything between the episodes of catatonia that was, of course, blamed on my Schizoaffective Diagnosis and seen as a reason to add more medications. I was 13 years old and on so many medications that my parents had to have my school nurse involved to call me out of class and take my midday 2 pill cups under supervision. And of course I was getting sicker.

It wasn’t until I was an adult and reached out to multiple specialists and psychiatrists to look at my pharmaceutical records and brain scans that I realized, watching their faces turn somber or grossed out as they went through it, when their tone changed and voice fell in volume to ask me to confirm hospital stays and names of providers that were in the system, “can you confirm an appointment with [psychiatrist] for TMS and medications?”. I finally accepted that I wasn’t crazy about it. They were gaslighting a child that they knew was already being gaslit at home. I knew what they were doing: They were trying to chemically lobotomize a child instead of helping me because I was too deviant and unlikeable; a transsexual and bisexual child who wasn’t growing out of the homosexuality despite therapy and had problems with authority, a history of long term abuse and family that normalized criminal behavior, complaints from family and school about disruptive behavior, and psychosis. A child like that is scary to society because they could grow up to be an actual transsexual who partakes in homosexuality, breaks the law, and could be a danger to others and thorn in the system’s side.

How a doctor can keep his license while viewing patients, especially children, that way is beyond me. But yeah, lobotomy isn’t something that went away that people, especially those at higher risk from doctor bias, aren’t worried about anymore or don’t have trauma with. “60 years old” maybe for reported, surgical lobotomies. But there are people younger than 18 to this day who have had parts of themselves damaged via psychiatric malpractice who don’t even know how to talk about it or to who. I don’t even understand what I lost in any way that I can put into words. I just know that I’m not the same person, and I know I lost a lot of people around then because they didn’t understand why it felt like they lost a friend/family member who was standing in the same room as them. I lost my future with school. I was further traumatized and distrustful and bitter. Every childhood disorder that I had was now a more severe, adult version that they didn’t know how to treat and overwhelmed them.

I’m traumatized. My family is traumatized from being a part of it. We already had trauma in the family from medical malpractice that lead to deaths, near deaths, permanent physical disability, and abuse of someone with an intellectual disability by hospital and school staff. I’m sure that played a role in why my parents took so long to get me psychiatrists and psychotherapy in the first place. It was painful. My family and the nurses had to pin me to the floor and force me to swallow then check my mouth with a flashlight and watch me for 30min because YEAH I wanted to throw it up or get it out of my system somehow. I felt like I was overdosing on diphenhydramine anytime they gave it to me, but they wouldn’t believe me. Thinking back and comparing it to an ER visit I’ve had, I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that I spent my middle school-high school years forced to live through mild serotonin syndrome. That and them giving me large amounts of benzodiazepines in middle school? My father’s psych encouraging them to cut his benzos in half and make me take them when I was in elementary school? Yeah, I fought back. That was basic survival instincts, not paranoia.

There isn’t anywhere to really talk about this because people immediately want to assume it’s anti-medication propaganda. They accuse people of being part of that whole “anti-conspiracy to numb everyone’s brain with psychotropic medications having to do with capitalism and state control” mentality. And that’s not what I’m talking about. And people’s lived experiences aren’t political tools unless they are specifically applying it to a political stance. Sometimes it’s just to vent about something more taboo that we’ve gone through that isn’t widely discussed or taken into account.

I think meditation is important and can be used in a way that saves or betters lives, but that doesn’t change the fact that putting heavier restrictions and medical stigma on lobotomies isn’t going to stop or change the motives of doctors who believe in permanently damaging the prefrontal cortex as a means of treatment, and they will find a way that doesn’t need any surgical tools if that’s the way they view patients. The current tools at their disposal are mainly medications, TMS, and ECT. If you use those with the intention to (fry) alter someone’s frontal lobe without consent and in a way that harms their quality of life but makes them easier for the system to deal with, that’s not too much different from attempting to do the same with surgical instruments. It’s bullshit to pretend that USA lobotomies ended when they stopped mass producing and buying the tools necessary for surgery. It’s bullshit to assume that the treatment modality stopped existing when one of the tools was taken away.

The problem with lobotomies is that it’s an entire treatment modality mindset. You can ban the Tx, but you still have doctors who were trained or allowed to view psychiatric treatment as a means to commit human rights violations and doctors who were trained under the men who performed lobotomies back in the mid 1900s. Until those doctors are held accountable, nothing will change. Lobotomies still exist both literally with metal and anesthesia and with medications used off-label, in harmful combos, at dangerous ages, and heavily. Then you have literal magnets and electricity still being applied in combination to medications.

#…#long post #lobotomy tw #psychiatric abuse tw #psychiatric malpractice tw #acquired brain injury #<- was never diagnosed but lookin @ my neurologists’ notes wellllll

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queenofdenest · 2 years

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Title: in the mouth of trauma (is silence not an act of violence too?) Fandom: Hetalia Warnings: creator chooses not to use archive warnings Relationships: Est & Liet & Lat Characters: HWS Est, HWS Liet, HWS Lat, HWS Rus, others mentioned Tags: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Non-Consensual Drug Use, Aftermath of Torture, Psychological Torture, Psychiatric Torture Aftermath, Victim Blaming, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Dissociation, Disordered thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, Mental Instability, Historical Hetalia, Soviet Union Era, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Mentioned Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied Past Attempted Suicide

Summary: it's time to leave behind everything they have done to him, but how does one begin to heal when the wounds no longer cover his body, just his mind?

AO3: the link to read it on ao3

A/N: So I'm going to be honest, I never thought that the first fic (Isolation) would have a sequel but when I sat down, my brain really said that that story was not done yet. I don't know yet how far I'm going with this, so far there are two more fics set during this time period that are much less *gestures at everything involved in this fic* then this, but those will definitely not be done this month, maybe next month. Though I'm actually hoping to have some happier things to share soon.

I do warn to please look back at the tags as every single one of those are mentioned throughout the fic - unlike with Isolation, I can't give paragraph specific warnings as basically every paragraph has a triggering content in it. Like this fic is more than a tad bit darker than the previous fic, sorry. That being said, I have listed every single tag I believe needs to be there, if there is one missing please nicely let me know. If you need to take a break while reading this, may I lead you to video of mine.craft yt Go.odTimes.WithSc.ar being hilarious?

All mistakes are my own, my beta is asleep so they haven't read this over for me. Information is at the bottom as it always is for my historical works.

Lastly, title is from Blythe Baird – “Pocket-Sized Feminism”, no real reason besides I really like it. Prompt is from Fict.ober 2021, "You have no proof". dedicated to my beta, who's asleep right now, who talked with me about this fic, and to my mother who read the ending to tell me it didn't suck.

Last warning, this fic is dark and to please read the tags.

____

The sun is setting when he’s dragged out of the room – fear in his stomach as they grip his arms roughly, leading him down the hall to the shower rooms.

He hates the shower rooms.

He never used to mind the shower rooms or what they represented – group showers – but ever since he was dragged to one after that tortuously long car ride, thrown to the grimy floor in a building he assumed was abandoned, and all but tortured by the soldiers who seemingly took great pleasure in what they were doing, he has had trouble with them. It’s like they no longer represent the idea of being equal with the other people in there*, instead they are the place where bad things happen.

He hopes that’s not what’s going to happen now.

Not again.

He knows he wouldn’t survive it; his body is weak and tired. The doctors have been raising the dosage of the medication* they were giving him; they wanted him far too docile. And while his nation physiology did wonders to get rid of most medications quickly, even at doses that would incapacitate or kill a human, he was being given doses every few hours. He knows it’s been absolutely annoying the head doctor – the man had threatened to force a bottle of poison down his throat, as if somehow he controlled how his body worked.

Higher and higher dosages and more pills forced down his throat by a maniac and those who appeased him.

He forces himself back to the present, to the soldiers, and tries to even his breath out as rough words are tossed from one and another, their meaning lost on him in his terror. They must be chatting about what they plan to do to him, of what is going on – and if he focuses, he knows that he could understand the words, but there’s a part of him doesn’t want to.

It’s sometimes easier to live in the world where he can feign ignorance; any question they might ask him is in vain if he lets his mind wander away from him to times where things were much easier. To times where the terror is no longer lurking.

He takes a deep breath as the door swings open, the sound of another patient – victim – screams from somewhere in the building as he is thrown into the room, the memory from the first time this happened echoing in his movements.

Get in there!

He is, for once, thankful that they had taken his glasses when he was moved into this particular place; they had made a horrible sound as they had hit the grimy floor once before and he has no desire to hear that same clink, especially since he can hear in his head the sound of throaty laughter and footsteps moving closer to him -

Didn’t hear me, did you traitor? I said get up!

Rough hands grab him once more, “Up, up,” they say, the Russian words falling quicker, “We have no time for this, get up.”

They aren’t shouting. Their words are harsh and demanding, but they’re not shouting and so he manages to bring himself back to the present, to help himself to his feet. More hands touch him and he lets himself be directed to the first open shower, staring at it in fear. He knows how this goes.

“We are right out the door – don’t try anything, we will know,” one of the men says, dark eyes piercing as he points to the entrance. “Shower quickly, shower thoroughly.”

Let’s get this evidence off you, not that anyone would believe a fucking traitorous bastard such as yourself.

(he didn’t believe himself either)

He feels himself nod and watch as they leave the room, doors swinging behind them. Part of it feels that his mind goes with them, sliding out the flesh he’s been placed in and following them across gleaning white tiles, past a set of weak doors, to stand and wait until he’s done with the directive given to him.

It still leaves the body behind though, and he knows that if he doesn’t do as he’s told, he’ll be forced to by one of them: the last thing he wants is more hands touching him.

Even if the hands that hurt the most has long since been gone, he can still feel haunted by them; still feel the burn of bruises forming against skin that has grown weak since his first capture – the time when he was young, not the one done by the brutes manning the Soviet army.

His shaking hands drop to his clothing, sea green eyes darting towards the door for a brief second before he starts with the buttons on the shirt. He doesn’t look at his body after the shirt is gone, instead his eyes go distant as he stares at the tiled walls, hands dropping to his pants.

He had been a fighter once*, he thinks as fearful hands shed the last protection he has on him.

Most saw him as a homebody and he is – he’d never argue that he was most at home among his people; farming, learning, living, breathing in the fresh air, but when war had brought itself to his doorstep, he never backed down. He met challenges with a straight back and a fierce strength that had won him many battles and many scars. He had been set against bigger nations, more powerful then he’d been and been told to give up, submit, things would be easier if he did, and he had told them that he was never going to bend, never going to break, and he had never done so.

And yet – right as the water turns on, the sound of the pipes creaking from all around him; the water, lukewarm at best, spraying against his bruised flesh, he feels like breaking now.

He knows he can’t, whatever is going on will need him to carry that same strength that he had carried as a child, but the fragility of his mind after these long months – years, possibly – keeps him flitting between the nation he once was and the man who learned to keep his head down to avoid anymore trouble than his existence already brought him.

He grabs for the soap in front of him, the filthy looking bar slimy between his fingers, slimy against his bare skin. Not that he needs it to feel slimy, but it does it’s job as best as it could. Dirty water sits for a second at the drain before being sucked away, disappearing forever.

Come here, I swear it’s like you live to disappoint – get in the bath already, can’t have the doctors asking questions if you show up looking like a cheap whore.

(the doctors don’t care, don’t care, don’t care, don’t care)

His nails bite into the soap as he grips it hard, two deep breaths in, two deep breaths out.

I don’t want to share my traitorous bitch.

(lieslieslieslieslieslieslieslieslies)

The shower shuts off, there’s a towel sitting on the broken sink and he reaches for it, forcing himself to focus on the story of the broken sink and not that monster’s words. He doesn’t remember who told it – either Dmitri, who was there for expressing disappointment in the current regime, or Linas, who was there because his father had spoken out against the Soviets but who lied to protect the old man – but it was one of them who told him in whispers late at night through the gaps in the solitary wing’s broken walls the story of the broken sink.

It wasn’t particularly interesting, he thinks as he swipes away the moisture on his skin. Mostly he had listened because he had been down there for over two weeks and his voice had all but disappeared from singing and screaming for far too long. It was, though, a sign of what kind of behavior was tolerated there.

A nurse enters a clandestine relationship with a patient. She uses the shower room as it’s the easiest place to clean up and she knows the schedule of her fellow nurses so can tell when will be safe to take her patient lover there to interact. A doctor, one who had been trying to court her, found out one day and decides to do something about it. He decides he will kill the patient and to do so, lures the poor addled man to the space on a night she’s not supposed to be working. While waiting for the other, he rips the pipe from the sink and hides near the door, ready to kill the other when he walks in.

And walks in the other man does but with the nurse. The doctor was shocked and drops the pipe, but in his rage at seeing them together, he kills the patient anyway, bashing his head against the sink, over and over and over again, until the porcelain breaks and bleeds.

While this is happening, the nurse has run off to get help, fear overriding all sense she has as she worries for the man she loves. She returns with help but it’s too late for the patient and the doctor, who is covered in blood, coldly turns to the guard she had brought and tells the man, “The nurse here has been colluding with this patient to kill me – I overheard their plan and decided to act before either could get me.”

He is believed. The nurse is sent away, left to die in whatever painful way they want her to in a gulag somewhere. The doctor continues to work there. No one cares; not about the nurse wrongfully convicted, not about a patient sent there for mental problems being murdered by a man meant to help him, and definitely not for a doctor with blood on his hands and not a shred of guilt in his soul.

He has internalized that lesson here – no one cares about any of them – and it’s been proven far too often as every day passes.

A soldier walks in right as he’s putting his underwear back on and it takes all he has to hold back the urge to cover his body with the towel, to shy away from this man who looks more a child than an adult. But hold it back he does, instead staring at the man as fabric is thrust towards him. Russian is spoken, his brain still far away in another world.

The soldier looks back towards the door before licking his lips and saying, “Clothing, for you,” in a language* he’s not heard from anyone not him in far too long.

Estonian.

His language.

He reaches for them, the sight of his glasses calling to him and the fabric familiar as his hands clenches around them. “Thank you,” he says carefully in that same language.

He’s not scared of what will happen if a nurse or doctor hears him. He’s spoken it far too often for someone who’s been punished for doing so. It – along with the dozen or so other languages he knows – have been the one thing that has comforted him through everything, and while he’s not thankful for having to learn them how he did, he is thankful he did learn them.

The solider – a boy no older than 20 – gives him a smile, as if he’s done something good, and nods again, motioning to his hands. “Please, hurry,” he says, in Russian this time, before turning and leaving.

Despite the thankfulness that comes from hearing his own language from another's mouth after being removed from the two other nations who spoke enough of it to keep him from going crazy, he’s still uneasy; he’d be stupid not to be. He still has no idea what is going on. This was nothing like how they moved him from the first facility to this one – that had been done through drugging him and him waking up in a moving vehicle, his eyes blinded and his hands tied again.

The soldiers, the same from when he was first taken from Mister Russia’s manor, had laughed at his panic.

“Look at the traitor – scared of what might happen.”

Still, he does what he’s told, dressing in the clothing given to him, his glasses first. They look familiar, like something he owns back at Mister Russia’s home, but he can’t see how they could’ve gotten them. To go there and ask for some, or even to go there and grab any clothing, would be tantamount to admitting that he was taken somewhere where his other clothing was either damaged or gone – it’d be admitting something.

Which, he knows for certain, they did not – would not – want to do.

He had yelled it over and over again at the first facility. They had no right to do what they were doing – there were laws* that they had to listen to when it came to people like him, they would be in trouble. Of course, as time puttered by, he had come to the realization that no, they wouldn’t. For that to happen, he’d have to be willing to bring everything to the other nations.

Something that he did not – would not – want to do.

Looking at himself in the cracked dirty mirror, he presses his hand against the starchy feel of the button up shirt sleeves; to the softness of the sweater vest, the stiffness of the pants. He’s even got a belt – for a flash of a second he wants to wrap it around his throat and one of the pipes that line the ceiling – and it’s surprisingly easy how he falls right back into comfort as he coils it around his waist and buckles it.

He looks normal.

It feels weird.

The boy soldier comes back, smiling as he does so. “Ah, Mister Russia said you would like those – your brown haired brother wanted to give you a different outfit but what Mister Russia wants, Mister Russia gets.” His Russian is not as rough as the others are. In fact, he can, for the briefest moment in all of history, pretend not to hate the language, but for him to pretend that it still doesn’t grate at his skin like a serrated blade being drawn down his skin on it’s side, would be a lie that even he can’t speak.

“Mister Russia?” His – Eduard’s – Russian is perfect as always: he’s always been gifted orally.

You’ve got such a talented mouth – makes sense for a traitorous little bitch.

Linguistically talented.

For the most part, it’s been a blessing as no matter how much he argues that he will refuse to learn a new language, the nations who have held his land have followed the same script when it comes to forcing him: refusing to speak to him in any language not their own, refusing him books that aren’t in their language, refusing him time spent on his own land or among his own people, ignoring him should he speak any language that is not the one they were trying to force upon him. He knows that, for most of them, it was never done maliciously, but he still resents them for it*.

He’s always hated that his language was considered lesser by some; hated that he was expected to learn while they were not.

But that’s bygones – thoughts he uses to distract himself from the terror that he’s been living in. Sometimes late at night he would pretend to argue with nations from his past about it, going over words out loud in the slurred state that he was often left in until he felt like he had properly argued his point.

“Yes, Mister Russia is demanding you home,” the boy solider says, who motions to the door behind him, “We have been sent to do so.”

It takes the air out of his lungs for a moment to hear that. He knows that going home does not mean going back to his country but instead back to Russia’s manor home, and yet he feels the slightest bit of happiness. He hates the idea of going back there – the representation of Russia was not a sane man; history had taken it’s toll on him and he took it out on others* – but it was better than waiting every night to see what torture befell him.

Tell me, are all nations weak like you?

“Why?” It falls out of his mouth before he has the ability to tamp down on it; kill it before it kills him. Especially when he knows the answer – what Mister Russia wants, Mister Russia gets – that will come.

There’s a shrug before, “I don’t know. We were told to get you, bring you to Moscow where you will wait for Mister Russia to pick you up. That’s it,” is said. And like good soldiers who do not question what their orders are, here they are.

“I’m ready then.”

____

If he expects that they’re going to walk him out like he was brought it – dragged by his underarms, blindfolded, clothes a mess, thrown to the ground like a piece of trash they wanted nothing more than to get rid of – then he’s mistaken. Instead, the boy soldier calls for his fellow soldiers, men who look older and as if this job is beneath them. One stands in front of him, one stands in back, and then one on each side.

It’s like he’s being protected but he knows the truth: it’s so that he has no thought of running, no way to try if he even wanted to.

Eduard flinches as the doors to the building swing open, the bright light of the sky burning his eyes a bit. There are two small cars sitting in front of the stairs, the head doctor whispering to another soldier near the passengers’ side of one of them.

He wants nothing to do with whatever conversation is happening, the head doctor is as cruel as the soldiers from before, but as a thick manila folder is passed between the two men, he wishes he could hear what is being said – perhaps it is about him and his mental state.

Perhaps it’s about the drugs given to him that have started to wear off and what they did.

Perhaps it is about the harm that has befallen him while in their care – a soldier who took too much liberties whenever he had the chance, the male nurses who slammed him up against walls and forced his mouth open to push pills past his lips, a female nurse who pinched him whenever he would doze off during the day as she didn’t want him to ruin his sleeping pattern.

Perhaps it is about the other things that even in his thoughts Eduard will not mention.

Whatever it is, the soldier has it packed away in a locked briefcase before Eduard has even approached them, the quartet of solemn faced men marching him slowly.

“Ready?” The man asks and, by the way the others nod their head, it’s obvious that he is the one in charge of it all. “Good, get in the car.”

The door is opened for him, the boy soldier slides in first and Eduard takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he follows. His body wants to shake, the last time he was in a car like this was -

I bet you like being surrounded like this – all helpless and needy.

“Are you okay?”

He wants to scream – wants to laugh – wants to take the knife from the belt nearby and stab until he feels better – but instead he nods and lies like he’s been taught to do since his country was taken from him and his people, “Yes, thank you.”

He’s polite even when he doesn’t want to be.

“Good, soon you will be home.”

It’s not his home, sits snugly on his lips. He had said that once to the Russian nation and received a backhanded slap for it, along with a long, long lecture about not being respectful enough. Eduard had felt he was being respectful, especially given that that time around, he hadn’t added any poison to the taller nation’s drinks.

Instead he says nothing, holding back the flinch that threatens his body once one of the other soldiers slides in to sit next to him. He can’t reach any of the doors, he can’t escape, he can just stare off in the distance and disappear from this world as he learned to do while locked up in solitary.

The driver in front – the soldier that was talking to the doctor – starts the car in silence, a quick bark of orders done too quick for Eduard to focus on translating to the other soldiers, before they’re off; the psychiatric facility nothing more then a minor stage piece in his personal history.

He should feel something, he thinks as they leave what had housed him behind and he’s able to see where he was being held. He should feel anything but all he can think is about how nice the little wooded areas look as they bypass them; how even if he hadn’t been blindfolded on the drive up, he still wouldn’t have been able to see anything with how late he had arrived.

So, in that case, for what other reason then but to make him feel helpless, did the original soldiers have him blindfolded and tied up, knelt on the floor between their clothed legs like a common whore?

But even with that thought, he can’t force himself to feel anything else but a solemn ache in his bones.

He’s just tired.

He wants home – his real home – and to hear his language as he goes about his everyday. He wants to hide away somewhere no one would ever look and pretend he doesn’t exist anymore. He wants to set himself upon the international stage and scream about what they have just let happen, and at the same time, he wants nothing more than to sew his mouth shut and never speak a word to anyone about the crimes committed against his person; against the other patients in the places he was sent to, against his fellow nations left behind in that manor.

He can’t do that though. To sew his mouth shut would be to prove to the psychiatrist who said he had gone crazy right, and they weren’t correct. He was fine – he would be fine, he would be fine and he was going to be fine. He had to be fine.

The definition of fine is different for them all though and Eduard – Estonia – is unsure what it means for him.

He knows how he’s been expected to act by those who’s owned his land, as every single other nation had different expectations of him, and he’s knew what it meant when he had his own bosses recently, and he just barely remembers what it meant the years before his country got taken, but none of those times has moments that come even close to now.

To the fear and loathing he feels.

To the memories that come and go as they please, as if they had etched themselves sharply against his skin and nary a touch would inflame them, jolting him back to the when.

To the sickness that settles in his gut at the idea of not rebelling while at the same time screaming at the idea of rebelling.

He feels hands on him at all times, hears the senseless roar of static in his ears when he loses focus. If he stops to listen for a second, he can hear the footsteps that echo as they walk down hallways, back and forth, back and forth. He feels desperate for something to distract him while at the same time fearful of being distracted by what may come.

If what they had wanted had been to permanently unsettle him, then they have succeeded, because for the life of him – and what a long life that is – he cannot seem to believe that there will come a day when he is not haunted by this; not hopelessly followed from home to home, room to room, city to city, space to space, by the violence that has damaged him so completely.

Damage that, for many reasons, he will have to carry by himself, because who could he even tell?

(He’s not telling, he promises, he would never!)

Who would even believe him?

(No one, he’s heard it all throughout this ordeal. No one would believe him – no one would listen to him – no one would care.)

The thought of telling Mister Russia barely flits in his brain before he’s batting it away. The other nation would not care, in fact, Eduard – Estonia – is sure he can actually hear what the other nation would say if he spoke of the abuse he has suffered at the hands of the other’s men. “You deserved it. You should not have been trying to betray the family. Now you have learned your lesson, are you going to be good now?”

You’ve brought this on yourself.

(pleasestoppleasestoppleasestop)

He internally shudders at that thought.

No.

Out of the question.

(Not that there even was a question – because he’s not going to tell, he swears, he would never.)

Eduard – Estonia – would never tell Latvia, it would traumatize the younger-looking nation and after spending most of his whole (imprisoned, captured) life with the other, the last thing he wants to do is put more of a heavy burden on the poor boy. Latvia has enough trouble, Eduard cannot add more.

No one cares where you are.

No one cares that you aren’t at Mister Russia’s house – it’s like nothing has even changed. It’s because you are not important. You are nothing but a traitor – no one misses a traitor.

And that goes for Lithuania too.

His relationship with the other is still slightly rocky after their fight from a few years ago, when Lithuania had first found out that Eduard – Estonia – was hoarding illegal books and pamphlets. He had been worried about what might happen to him should he be found out; what Mister Russia would do, what the Soviet government might do. Eduard had just told the other that he’d be fine, the worse that could happen was he got on Mister Russia’s bad side for a bit and had to spend time apologizing a lot; things that he basically did whenever he was caught speaking his own language.

“The government can’t touch us and it’s not like they’re going to be nicer to our people if we don’t join in on these protests,” Eduard had said while Lithuania had shaken his head, worried nonetheless.

He has no doubt that the Lithuanian would be horrified by what has happened to him, if he were to speak about it, but he also knows that Lithuania has his own troubles in the form of his abhorrent admirer that is their captor.

(And in that same vein, perhaps the other would, silently, blame Estonia for what befell him. The other had warned him, had expressed worry after worry after worry, and in his utter arrogance, Eduard – Estonia – had just waved him off. Perhaps if the other learned, he’d say You deserved it, I told you so, it’s your own fault, what did you expect them to do? And Eduard would have to live with those words coming from the mouth of his own friend (brother) for the rest of time.)

Even if he didn’t, what kind of person would he be if he forced his own problems onto someone already so troubled?

Not a good person, he hears in his head, the voice of his main tormentor echoing words he had spoken during late night torture sessions and early morning sessions. You’re not a good person at all. A weak nation, a bad friend, a terrible person. You get what you deserved.

Bile rises. His stomach clenches.

Deep breath in.

One.

Two.

Three.

Shaky breath out.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Out.

The soldiers in the car don’t notice – or don’t care – which is nice after the incessant watch he had been placed on while in the facilities. He supposes it makes sense to watch him so severely. They had him marked upon arrival, as someone who could, without a moment’s notice, seek to harm himself, even when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Before they had placed him in the protective care of the doctors and nurses of the Soviet Psychiatric field, he had never once thought about harming himself.

Now it’s a fight to ignore those thoughts.

There was no one, he returns to his previous thoughts, no one in that house he feels comfortable telling. Whatever lie that has been used to excuse away his absence is the lie he will give when asked, as soon as he finds out what it is.

“Look.” The boy solider grabs his arm to get his attention, one gloved hands pointing out the window.

Estonia-

–Eduard, a name passed to him by a brother that betrayed him and held onto after said brother had disappeared out of sentimentality; a name that had been spoken by destruction in the forms of humans trying to get him to break, hoping that he would crack as their own nation had done; a name that he doesn’t really connect to but refuses to leave behind because has he not left behind enough nations to the tide of time—he mourns for the representations of nations that had once existed but who’s existence was not long enough for them to be properly recorded in time—that he wishes to hold onto something from a nation that had once been kind to him?*-

–looks up briefly and sees a city rising from the dusty horizon.

How long has he been in his own thoughts?

Long enough that the drive has passed him by and the city of Moscow looms into view. Long enough that the fear that had been abated by his senseless thoughts comes back in it’s fullest to sit like lead in his stomach, bile displaced and rising to his throat.

He forces a smile. “Moscow?” He asks even though he knows the answer.

“Yes, we are almost there,” says the driver, his accent rougher then the boy soldier – and how long will he stay a boy soldier, he wonders. Maybe he becomes a soldier, no longer a boy, after he has used force to detain a person, following the lies gifted to him by whoever is in charge. The first time he drags a person through the streets, leaving them bloodied? Will he stop being one after his first, but not last, murder? Perhaps he will commit a rape beforehand, signaling to his fellow soldiers that he is a man who can force himself onto anyone he wishes as long as he wears the colors of his army.

Estonia doesn’t have any fairy tale ideas of what war looks like; he sat in the woods with his men trying to fight off an army of stronger opponents, watching them die and suffer, trying his hardest to help where he could, but that doesn’t mean he condones the acts that he knows are committed. Once, war had been ugly, nasty, dirty and drawn out but eventually over – now it’s the aftermaths that people struggle to move on from.

Still, he banishes the thought and instead decides to focus on getting his thoughts together. He can’t keep disappearing into his own thoughts – if he is going back to Russia’s house then he’ll not have the same amount of time to do so anymore, and if he wasn’t truly going back there, then it would probably look better if he was able to pretend he’s still at his best.

He closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath in, and like all his people had said back when he was a child nation and the looming threat of the crusades sat like an ugly shadow on his doorstep, locked everything that was not helpful away until he could unpack it at a later day.

____

When they arrive at a building, they speak quickly and roughly to each other, their words sliding from their lips faster than his slightly addled brain can keep up.

When they arrive at the building, the driver – commander? - says that they will be waiting in front of Mister Russia’s office there. He says that he expects Estonia to be on his best behavior because they have no clue how long it will take for the other nation to show up.

When they arrive at the building that decides his fate, Estonia is done packing away all the mental anguish, the trauma, the horror, the terror, and he notices that they are treating him as if he is a child who might wander off if not properly retained.

It’s demeaning.

“I’ve sat through more boring things than you can think of, I’ll be fine,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage, as they exit the vehicle. The words are much nicer than any of the biting (tearing, searing) words he wants to say. “If I do get too bored, I’m sure I’ll be able to find some way to entertain myself.”

The commander does not find him charming.

They make sure to walk in the same group formation as before; only this time, they follow like little rats the driver with his slow gait and commanding eyes. The walk to the building is slow, tension in his body rising sightly as he waits for something to change – for them to grow angry like the first set of soldiers that brought him somewhere or for them to rush him into a room and begin beating him – but nothing does and they enter the building.

There’s barely anybody, he notices as they walk through corridors and up a flight of stairs, nobody but them. It’s unnerving to think of being in a building with just these men, but it gets more unnerving as they come to a stop in the middle of a corridor two flights up, where a small retinue of others are standing in the way. It’s a small group, four men versus their six, but the way those men stand is just wrong. It’s as if there is nothing weighing down their shoulders: they stand proud and smug.

The head soldier – the driver, the commander, the rough and angry and too tired to still be here man – sighs to himself, mutters “What the fuck are they doing here,” under his breath, and squares his shoulders as one of the men in the other group comes to stand in front of them.

“We are here to take the representative of the Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic* to speak with our boss,” This man says, as he approaches. His voice is honeyed, hoarse, and full of warning as he comes to a stop in front of the commander, his arms held behind him. He gives a little nod to the other soldiers before his gray eyes zero in on Estonia. “We will be holding onto him until he is picked up by the USSR.”

His hands form fist, the threat under those words are there, he knows it, and he can see the commander frown. Hopefully the commander won’t let him be taken by these people, but Eduard doubts there is much he could do if they do decide to leave him with them. Logically, a dark part of his brain goes, it’d be easier for them – not having to deal with two nutcase nations.

“No.”

Estonia blinks. His brain is quiet for once as he takes in the sight of the soldiers steeling themselves for a fight while the other group looks at each other in confusion. He understands their thoughts, they are the type of men that one does not say no to, no matter who you are, but the commander does not seem to care about their place in the pecking order and stands plainly in place. But it cannot be that simple, Eduard thinks as the room falls into silence. You can’t just say no.

“What?” The man asks, frowning himself. “We have orders -”

The commander gives a bark of laughter, harsh like the wind against the skin in the middle of winter in poorly dressed clothing and all of the thoughts of how this man seemed weary fades as his true form comes out. His shoulders shrug as he grins slightly, “We were given orders by Mister Russia himself, to keep our eyes on this representation until he, himself, arrived to pick up the ESSR.”

He wishes they would stop referring to him as ESSR - it’s not his name, it’ll never be his name, he wants nothing to do with the farce of a name – but still, he holds himself stationary as those around him decide his fate, as he has been taught to do.

“Our boss-”

“I do not care about your boss,” the commander says, eliciting murmurs from the other men. Their boss must be very important that the words the commander says are met with such disbelief “I only care what my nation has asked of me – he has asked me to stay nearby the ESSR, to deliver the ESSR directly to him upon his arrival, and to then accompany them both back to the manor in which they reside.”

The other man frowns. It feels antagonistic, the way he does so – as if he’s weighing his options on just shooting the commander in order to get rid of him.

Estonia, for a second, feels his heart stop. He doesn’t care for anybody in the hallway, but the idea that he might become at mercy to these sharp angry men, with no one to stop them from whatever they want with him: he feels sick.

Again.

A door opens, bringing the rising tension to a standstill as a secretary exits the room right behind the men, her shoes clacking on the tiled floor. She takes one look at the soldiers and the unnamed men and frowns. Blue-gray eyes narrow as they meet his own, either she’s surprised that there are more people than she expected or she thinks he looks bad. Nevertheless, she shakes her head before she speaks, “He’s ready to see you,” right to him, ignoring the others around.

He’s been spoken at for the past however long he’s been held, but barely spoken to – a few times he’d have a human prisoner to interact with, but those times, were far and few in-between – so for a moment, he can just stare at her before the boy soldier pushes on his shoulder, alerting him back. He gives a nod to her and looks to the commander. “Hopefully I’ll only be a few minutes so you don’t get in trouble with Mister Russia,” he says with a slight smile he doesn’t feel.

The commander gives a short nod before directing his men to stand with their backs against the opposite wall, and Estonia follows the secretary into the room.

His stomach drops upon entry. He’s been here before and he knows it – the memories from that first night echoes in his brain as his feet force him to continue forwards, to the chair sat right in front of him. Estonia doesn’t know the name of the human in front of him, doesn’t know what position in Russia’s government he holds, but he knows that this is the man from that night all that time ago. This is the man that condemned him to two different mental facilities and a long period of torture*.

He lowers himself into the chair, eyes immediately drifting to the ground as he remembered the last time – how he had looked this man straight in the face and been violently assaulted for it. He wants to look up, to let him know that the nation of Estonia has not broken, but even the thought of it brings a shiver to his spine. Still, he takes several steadying breathes before he does let his eyes drift upwards, hiding his fear the best he can as he waits for anything.

“It has been a year and six months since you darkened my office door, do you understand what that means?” He asks, his nasally voice echoing through the room. Estonia doesn’t even get a chance to answer before the man continues, “It means that there will be questions about where you’ve been – do you know what you say?”

Of course he doesn’t, but he knows that whatever the answer is will be the furthest from the truth that they can get.

“You have been helping us with secretarial work; updating paperwork, helping with computers, things of that nature,” The man continues on, hands clasped on his desk, smarmy smile planted on his face. For a second, the man pauses before leaning close and speaking, “We have been very good to you while you’ve been with us; no harm has come to you.”

His breath leaves his body as his eyes widen slightly, staring at this man in disbelief. That lie would work if everyone he interacts with for the next hundred years are idiots, of which his neighbors are not. Some of them are self-centered, but none of them are so self-centered as to be able to believe no harm has come to him when he looks as he does. “No one will believe that.” It comes out without meaning to, just as his slip up did (kill it before it kills you) and the official’s face falls, ever so slightly.

“You have no proof,” He snarls, slamming his hands on the desk and standing, his chair hitting something hard behind him. Estonia flinches as he reels back, eyes closing as he waits for a physical attack. It takes the official a second to calm down before he’s forcing his fake smile back on his face and sitting back down. He clears his throat before he continues, “You must realize that you do not have any proof whatsoever of where you have been, whereas we, if questioned, can produce much evidence of you being in the locations we have given.”

Falsified evidence is not evidence.

“Of course, I worry for your mental state if you truly believe whatever it is you are imagining you have been through. Surely you do not need a stay in a psychiatric facility to help you remember the past year?” Eduard’s heart constricts in it’s cage made of his ribs. It’s not even a hidden threat. The man leans in conspiratorially, his smile dropping. “Because, between just us, I have not heard the best things about those facilities. My colleagues have spoken how they are trying to fix the rampant abuse that seems to breed in those locations but I am sure we can find you somewhere safe if you were to stay in one, yes?”

It’s a verbal slap in the face; an openly cruel one.

It takes him a second to gather his thoughts. Or well, the one thought that he keeps repeating in his head. “I won’t say anything,” he says after a moment. The man seems to wait for a second and Estonia knows what he wants, but all he can manage to say is, “Not that there is anything to say.”

This seems to ease the room a bit but still the official sits still.

“Because, I’ve been-” He can’t lie like this. He can’t say the lie given to him. It sits on his tongue, heavy as the feel of sopping wet clothes, weighing you down in the water. “I’ve been well.” He manages after a second.

The man smiles, nodding slightly as he grabs some papers off his desk. “Good, remember that if someone asks.” The pages are shuffled in his hands before one makes it way to the empty desk space in front of Estonia. “Now, can you tell me about this?”

Estonia stares at it for a second, his emotions haywire. It’s nothing more than a typed page of words, but it’s the words – inflammatory, anti-soviet words – that scream at him. They’re the reason he was sent away, they’re the reason he suffered.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t.” It’s his voice, he knows it is, but it doesn’t feel like it. “I’m sorry.”

This is a lie, much bigger than the one this man wants him to tell to others, but it’s a lie he’ll die with. The man who wrote that has two kids and a wife and takes care of his mother as his father was killed during the war and Estonia will never speak his name.

The man hums and places down another page of words – this time written by a man who left his teaching position in a university when the communists came to power and who survives life on bad humor and copious amounts of liquors – and asks, “How about this one?”

“No.”

The man’s face sours as he nods his head, placing down another one, and another one, and another one. “And these?”

“I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Is his palms sweating and his heart rapidly beating in his chest? Yes. But that doesn’t change that fact that he will not sell out his fellow dissidents.

Narrowed eyes meet his and for a second, he wants to speak out of fear, but instead, Estonia pulls in on himself, allowing a moment of weakness in hopes of that being the thing that forces this man away from him. It doesn’t though and he slams his hands on the desk again, moving to stand.

The door opens.

“Now what do we have here?”

Once upon a time, Ivan’s voice was the one that haunted his nightmares – the abuses that he suffered at the Russian nation’s hands plagued him still – but now other voices take that place and all he feels is a sense of bitter relief at the sight of the other nation. Better the devil you know, his brain supplies for him as he watches the government official straighten up and force a smile onto his face.

“Ivan!” The man greets, walking around his desk to stand right next to Estonia’s shoulder. A hand finds its way to rest on him, squeezing lightly. “You were supposed to check in with my secretary.”

Russia’s smile grows, eyes narrowing as he moves one step forward into the room. The man moves back a step, his hand falling from Estonia’s shoulder before Russia moves forwards again. “I didn’t want to,” he replies, head tilting and shoulders shrugging, “I will be taking this one now.”

The man stops smiling, swallowing a gulp of air before he says, “I’m afraid, sir, that we still have a bit more to discuss.”

“I don’t care.” Russia lays a hand on his shoulder and Estonia takes a moment to deep breath instead of flinching. Reactions make the other nation interested and Estonia has not survived his house with the least amount of trauma – which is not saying much – by showing his interesting reactions the other. “Stand up.”

Stand up or I’ll break your legs!

A hand yanking on his hair. Curses are shouted. Get on your knees bitch.

“Up, up, Estonia, we have places to go.” Russia’s childish voice cuts through the thoughts in his head, the ones trying to slink their way out of the box.

He pushes down on them, closing his eyes before he moves to stand up. Once standing, he straightens his shoulders ever so slightly and tries to force himself back into his normal around Russia. “Yes, Mister Russia, sir,” he says after a second.

There’s a dangerous look upon the other nation’s face and even though it is not directed towards him, Estonia can recognize this for what it is: a power play. It’s not the first time the Russian has fought with his government in this passive aggressive way, but it is the first time that another nation has fallen into harm because of it. Well, that and his own arrogant stupidity.

“We are leaving now,” Russia is saying, his voice sickly sweet. “I’m sure I will see you in a few weeks, Yuri.”

The man – Yuri, a name that rings some kind of bell in Estonia’s head – nods and moves to sit right back down. “Of course,” is said in fake cheer, “I look forward to our conversations.”

Russia turns without saying anything else, Estonia takes one last look at the man – he has a name now, his brain tries, but forever he will only remember him as ‘the man’ – and the stern look that has fallen across his face speaks more words than their previous conversations did.

He will be watching, waiting for Estonia to take one step out of line to drag him back here. Estonia didn’t break how he wanted him to and this man will try for a second time at some point in the future.

It chills him to the bones.

____

The drive back to the manor is shorter than he remembers. It seems that as soon as they get in the car, they are halfway there.

Logically, Estonia knows that’s not true, but he barely remembers any of the drive until Russia is telling him how much Lithuania and Latvia has missed him. A warmth blooms in his chest as Russia says, “Poor little Latvia has worried nonstop even after I told him of your employment as a secretary – you left so suddenly,” that he can even ignore the dig at the lie he’s replied with multiple times already.

It seems the Russian knows that he’s lying but is waiting for him to say it instead of confronting him on it.

Estonia is thankful for that. He knows that eventually it will come to a head, but he has much more practice at hiding his troubles than Russia has with patience, and so he believes that he will be safe for a while longer. Which is good, because with the fear he holds tight in his body, being confronted about everything is not a thing that he really wants to deal with at the moment.

“You will have the rest of today to settle yourself,” Russia was saying, his voice far more relax than Estonia figured he’d be knowing he was being lied to. “I expect you to help around the house though tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He’d need something to keep his mind off his thoughts. “Thank you, Mister Russia.”

A hum, but otherwise, the conversation is dead.

Which is fine for the Estonian. There are no more words that need to be said between them – theirs is not a relationships marked by the tentativeness of scraping past injuries yet a willing eye towards their future, instead it is a sinking ship upon which the captain has chained his men to the mast to await their watery grave. There is no comforting words to be given between the two of them; no apologies for governments overstepping, or trying to incite mass protests, or the past deeds they have done against each other. No sense in looking for forgiveness or anything more than surface level interactions.

The car pulls into the driveway by time Estonia thinks to open his mouth to ask about the others – is Miss Ukraine doing well? What about Miss Belarus? Has Prussia driven Lithuania to murder yet? - and all his questions disappear as he spots Lithuania and Latvia standing next to the open door.

There are bags beneath their eyes but the relief in them outshine anything else.

Estonia waits until Russia opens the door for him, letting the other nation walk ahead like he knows to do. It takes everything he has – and the slimy feeling in his gut – to resist the urge to wrap his arms around both of them and never let go. He’s not one for hugging usually, but he wants the comfort that comes from such a hug.

“Welcome back, Mister Russia,” they greet, a smile on their faces. For once they don’t look as forced. “Welcome back, Estonia.”

“Lithuania, Latvia.” He nods his head in greeting. His eyes meet Lithuania, the all knowing older brother figure, and he knows that Lithuania knows that he is not alright and if Lithuania knows than it’s only a matter of time before Latvia knows.

Russia is speaking though, giving them directions, and Estonia barely listens to a single word he’s saying. Instead he’s cataloging the other two in his mind. It’s been so long and the only mention of the two while he was gone was vague threats towards them and his tormentors telling him how little they missed him.

Lithuania looks as if death has visited him every night; the fatigue in his body is so noticeable that Estonia is worried immediately. The other never lets anyone see him this tired – not unless he can’t help it. The way his body seems to sag even as it’s standing straight makes him wonder what sort of harm has befallen Lithuania while he was gone.

Latvia is, at least, only trembling, but there is something beneath the surface of his eyes that that worries the Estonian. It’s anger, directed straight at Russia. Whatever has gone on while he was gone has brought an emotion to the Latvian that Estonia did not know the other could feel. Of course, he knew that Latvia could feel anger – everyone could, but he truly believed that Latvia’s other emotions were too weigh over by fear and trauma.

“Anyway, go, go,” Russia says, cutting into his thoughts as he pushes on Estonia’s back. The Estonian holds back a hiss as the other nation continues, “Remember, I expect you all to be ready to do your duties early in the morning.”

“Of course,” they all manage to say at the same time as the Russian leaves to go elsewhere in the manor.

The first words out of Lithuania’s mouth as soon as they are alone, Latvia attaching himself to Estonia’s midsection, are, “What did they do to you?” and for a second, Estonia pauses in his movement to welcome the hug, unsure of what to say.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something, either the truth (he promises he won’t tell, he’ll never tell) or the lie, when Lithuania shakes his head, “No, it’s okay, we’ll deal with that later, let’s just get you safe.”

Not comfortable, safe.

Estonia nods. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel that again, but he knows that as long as they are living in Russia’s home, he definitely won’t. There is no safety in a place you cannot speak about – no safety in a place you were forced to come to. There is no safety in a place where you will be watched until you mess up – and Estonia knows himself, he will mess up at some point. He will begin piecing himself back together tomorrow and sometime in the future he will misstep and he will be dragged right back in front of that man to answer for it.

The only way to not be is to let this silence him; let this be the only warning he needs to keep himself in line.

But he can’t, he thinks as he’s lead through the house and towards their shared bedroom. In silence, there is some quiet acceptance that this is what it is now and Estonia, bruises fading, body aching, soul shattered, cannot accept this.

He refuses.

____

Additional Notes: Anyway, sorry for the dark fic yet again, seriously hoping the next thing I have for you guys is a lot more happy. I've got like 80% of a happy fic finished but like the last bit is kicking my ass.

Historical notes && information:

*Takes place literally right after Isolation *Being naked in literally so many other places are not as sexualized as it is in America, and like group showers/saunas/nude beaches are all fine because it's like the great equalizers - which like I get but at the same time I don't really want to see anyone nude ever so *shrug* *There's far too many medications for me to list but like just pick a benzo that was in production during that time and you'll have what I was thinking of. *Ten thousand percent little baby Estonia fought against the Nordics during their viking era (bby!Est as a little sea faring child who just wants the vikings to piss off is a thing thank you for coming to my ted talk) and everything and one day I'll write a fic for that, but like look through their history, Estonians really fought a lot - their resilience in the face of occupation is truly admirable. *This kid's the product of an Estonian mother and a Ukrainian father and honestly only exists for this one series fic. *I have talked about this before and I'll talk about it again, there's got to be some kind of agreement between governments, otherwise any goodwill is immediately shattered. I mean, I'm not politician (I have morals) but I am a person and if I found out that the gov of another nation tortured my nation, I'd have no desire to see any sort of friendship grow. *What is is with occupying governments deciding the native languages are icky and like banning their usage?? Especially since the Estonian language is so pretty??? It's literally like lilting and pretty and !!!! But anyway, historically, Estonian was not considered pretty by all those occupying nations and was either outright banned or just not considered important over said occupying nation's own language. As stated, I don't think the nations who owned Est was doing it maliciously - unlike their govs - but more so in a practical, lets not rock the boat, sorta thing. *There is enough evidence in the manga/webcomics, anime, and other supplemental material that states that Russia was volatile towards the Baltics while they lived with him, ergo Trauma. *This entire paragraph is a headcanon. First bit, 'a brother that betrayed him,' according to an Estonian history book I have, prior to Livonia joining the whole religious thing, ancient Estonians saw them as a (kinda) brother nation, afterwards not so much. (Really sold out a family relationship for a place to live (for legal purposes, this is a joke)). Secondly, "left behind enough nations to the tide of time", there were quite a bit of nations in that area that have come and go: Courland, Semgallia, Ingeria, etc, and I know they most likely don't show up because Hima-papa hasn't done research on them/gone that deep, but I like to think that they probably just faded after a while. Lastly, I don't think some nations got to choose their own name. Like I'm not going to get into it here, but the name Alfred was only really popular in America from the late 19th century to the 1930s, so why would America have that name if it wasn't given to him by the reigning country - Britain? Anyway, I, especially, believe in the way of Est & Lat that they were named by Prussia & Livonia and since human names aren't that important, they just went a long with it. I got more thoughts, but this is already long enough. *Name given to Estonia during the Soviet period. We don't like -∞/100. *This man is/based after Yuri Andropov, the real life chairman of the KGB during the time this fic is taking place. He was really really a bitch who "sought the destruction of dissent" and was lead the way in committing people to psychiatric hospitals for dissidence. I don't know if I have to put allegedly here to avoid any troubles but like it was written about and everyone knows so fuck this guy.

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