Another PolLiet Preview

     In that dark corner of the house, where the wallpaper was faded and torn, where the roof had caved in, where dust coated the floor and hung so thickly in the air it was like staring into a fog, he lay.  He lay like the broken scrap of a nation he was, curled around the half empty bottle of vodka he'd been nursing for days.  His eyes were bloodshot from the alcohol coursing through his fragmented body and his hair was mussed and disgusting from the weeks he'd gone without moving from his little black corner.  The scarf that never left his body wrapped about his face so only one petrified purple eye gazed up at Lithuania, wide and terrified, so unlike the ominous eyes that used to stare the Baltic state down until he collapsed. Crack.
     "You're leaving me?" said a quivering voice from within the folds of the ratty old scarf.  Lithuania almost showed concern for the pitiful thing that was Russia, but years of pure torture set within his memory kept him from rushing to the man's aid, the man who'd once owned him like some vase that he didn't mind shattering as long it could be repaired with a quick glue job, a little tape and put back on the shelf to hold the sunflowers before it was knocked over again.  That kept him back. Crack.  
     Lithuania gripped his bag a little tighter.  The suitcase was decades old and held what little possessions Lithuania had left.  "Yes, Mr. Russia sir—" Lithuania cleared his throat, beating back old habits.  "—…yes, Russia.  And I'm not coming back."  
     Lithuania was quite sure that Russia was incapable of shedding a tear, and Russia did not break this belief.  He just sighed and cast his eyes away.  His gloved hand wrung at the long tan coat wrapped around him.  Crack. "You were always my favorite, Lietuva," he said, reaching up towards Lithuania, who backed away slowly.
     Lithuania shook violently like he always did as his gaze fell to the floor in front of him, right out of his view of Russia.  "…I'm not the only one who will leave, Russia.  You wait.  Everyone will be gone soon enough.  And you'll be alone."  His words sounded harsh but
     Crack.
     Actions crack
               speak crack
crack louder
                      than crack words crack crack.
     There were a number of things Lithuania could have done right then.  He could've kicked Russia until he bled as much as crack he'd made others.  He could have snatched up the bottle of vodka and poured it out to save Russia from killing himself.  But he did none of those things.  He turned on his heels and he ran from that dark corner, from that house, from the Soviet Union and as far he away as he could from those crack memories crack.