Prompt: 7. isolation Series: unofficial (and very outdated) whumptober 2k19 Fandom: Hetalia. Warnings/Tags: purple prose. dead dove do not eat: torture, mentions of non-consensual sexual interactions, referenced non-consensual drug use, psychiatric abuse, referenced suicide, mentions of physical beatings. historical (esque) hetalia. Characters: APH Est.onia. Pairings: n/a Summary: [sovi.et era] dissidents are not welcomed in the sov.iet u.nion.
A/N:THIS IS ONE OF MY DARKER FICS, I'M BEGGING YOU TO HEED THE WARNINGS!!!
DID YOU READ THEM?
OKAY GO READ THEM AGAIN!!!
... I'M TRUSTING YOU NOW.
Additional Author's Notes: Sorry for the very early & mid 2000's intro there, I just wanted to make sure you all knew what was being put in this fic. Further author notes at the bottom as always.
EXPLANATIONS OF THE WARNINGS: Just want to give a quick rundown of the warnings right here should you want it: estonia is being held in a punitive psychiatric hospital during the soviet union era for the crime of dissidence; there is no scene of torture or drug use or rape or suicide or physical beatings, they are all mentioned in his thoughts as he ruminates. suicide is mentioned in the first paragraph, torture and non-con drug use and psychiatric abuse is mentioned throughout, rape is implied in paragraph 12, 13, 22 & 23 (the last two just barely implied), physical beatings is mentioned in 12, 13, 22, 23, & 27. If any of this causes you any discomfort, please click off the fic, go to this video of callme.kevin being the cutest, and take care of yourselves!!! Anyway, onto the fic!!
The air was stale, the barred window didn’t open – the doctors had said they were terrified he’d jump to his death; as if death would be a freedom. Maybe if he were human like the others in the building, but no, he was immortal, left to live a life that wasn’t even really his own.
Eduard stared at the ceiling, trying to recount in his head how to say I hate you, go die, in all the languages he knew. Of course, he had started with his own language, the forbidden words falling silently from chapped lips over and over again until he had moved to Latvian, Lithuanian, Polish, Danish, Finnish, Swedish, German, Livonian – he had even spoken Russian as he did so, though he had spoken them louder, so the doctors would hear him as he shouted.
They loved hearing him speak Russian.
He abhorred speaking it.
He turned his head, facing the wall instead. It was empty. Blank. A brutalistic architecture meant to break down the spirit as the doctors with their drugs broke down the rest.
A door squeaked from somewhere down the hall. Empty footsteps minded their way downwards, stopping every few seconds to check in with the other patients – prisoners, Eduard thought.
(Estonia, he reminded himself, he is the nation of Estonia, the Republic of Estonia, not the Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic, not a piece of the Soviet Union, not a political dissident who needed to be silenced in the eyes of the government)
There were no patients in the building, just unfortunate victims of a society that deemed them dangerous for disagreeing with the general idea of the state of the world; people forced to be pricked by little needles full of dizzying drugs and told they were insane when they were unable to handle it. He could handle it; at least, at the low dosages they started with he could.
Nation physiology was weird; often what would knock out a human wouldn’t work on them, leaving the doctors here to up the dosages to the dangerous amounts of oddly mind-boggling drugs he was already being forcibly injected with. He didn’t like it.
One of the drugs burned*, it felt as if his veins were on fire, coursing through him. He could barely cry with how hot he felt when it happened, barely curl himself into a ball and beg for release.
Eduard – Estonia – listened again for the footsteps.
He liked listening to them. They were better than the screams that echoed down the way, plus they warned him of the solider who’d visit at night. Bile rose in his throat. No, he thought, the man was long gone. He had been told that said solider was going back to whatever hellhole he had dragged his way up from, over a month – a week, a day? He wasn’t exactly sure, time had started to pass weird when they had found the right dosage level to give him – but still the thought of him left a sickening feeling in his gut.
He had bruises from where that man had beat him, had held him down by his throat.
All this because he had been caught with a pamphlet*.
Sure it was an illegal pamphlet; one that spoke of dissidence and social reforms, of the notion of freedom and what followed. And yes, it wasn’t the first time he had been caught with such writings; sometimes they were in Russian, sometimes they were in his own forbidden language, and sometimes whoever language he could get his hands on.
But none of that mattered. All that mattered – in the eyes of the Soviet Government – was that he had shown that he wasn’t going to be quiet in his capture, complacent in his own occupation, and as such, he had to be punished*.
He clenched his eyes shut at that thought. Of how he had been dragged from the manor that Russia and the other nations lived at, all to the sounds of the others absolute silence – this was never supposed to happen, governments had no right to punish a nation, it was an written rule* – and brought before whatever politician had decided his fate.
“Where did you get the pamphlet?” The politician had asked, “Give up the names and everything will be alright, yes?”
Behind him had stood the solider who had followed him to the first two psychiatric hospitals.
Estonia had kept his mouth shut.
The footsteps stopped in front of his door, pulling him from his thoughts. Not from any of the fear. In fact, his mind flashed back to the first psychiatric unit he was sent to and he failed at attempting to swallowed a bit of the fear that tried to force itself from his chest.
At first terrified of being sent to a Gulag, he had instead been blindfolded, driven around for what had felt like more than an hour, before being dragged through a building and deposited in an empty shower room. When they had ripped off his blindfold he could see that the tile had been a dirty off white, the silver of the open faucets covered in grime, and the sickening feeling in his gut had grown tenfold. They had shouted at him to undress – he was sure he had been sent to prison – before the guards had unclothed him, ripping fabric from him as they forced him under cold water.
They had taken their time to make every single part of it was as painful as possible, making sure that by time he had been deemed clean enough, he had bruises forming on his body, some of them barely covered by the outfit he was forced in.
Of course what had come afterwards was the true pain. Not even given the right of a (most likely false) declaration that he had gone insane, he had been tossed into a facility for those much like himself: dissidents.
There were criminals, ones who had done bad but had decided that being mental was better than a Gulag – they were not wrong –but in the end it really didn’t matter. If one wasn’t insane when they entered, they became so before they left.
More footsteps echoed down the hall. The bit of fear turned into a pit and Estonia waited with baited breath. Please just leave, he thought. He couldn’t stand the idea of more questions. He hated the drugs, he hated the people.
Estonia turned his head. He could, in his ears, feel the sound of his heart pounding. He knew what was coming. It was a vicious cycle. Half the time they left him locked in a room, the only interaction with the nurses who brought food and the doctors who questioned him and the guards that beat him – the other half, he was truly left alone, for days no one would show up and he’d feel sluggish by time they had decided to let him see another person.
He had been left by himself for a few days, left to stew and ride out the drugs forced down his throat the last questioning.
It was time for people now.
Bottom Author's Notes: You ever trigger yourself writing??? I did that when I wrote this. 😐 Welcome to my first ever dark fic in this fandom that I've shared! I hate it! No not really, I'm actually really proud of it. I just - sigh -
Psychiatric abuse was, imho, one of the worst parts of the Soviet Union (though it is still an ongoing issue in Russia). They "created" their own form of schizophrenia as a way to silence those who disagreed with them; they also all but tortured those who were placed in mental facilities, stripped them of all of their rights even after being released from said facilities (y'know, if the torture didn't kill them!) and all but treated them as subhuman. Some patients were mentally ill, some were criminals who figured it'd be better than the gulags, and a lot were those who disagreed with the soviet union because "only a crazy person who disagree with socialism". As someone with mental illness, including being a person who deals with schizophrenia, the idea of abusing your privilege as a doctor to forcibly detain and torture someone who disagrees with your political party is a terrifying and physically upsetting idea. I had originally tried a different way with this prompt, going for a little bit more soft torture and everything but I kept getting stuck with that and while doing personal research for a different fandom, I found all this information and I decided to use the definition of isolation that means less "solitary confinement" and more separated from society instead. This fic then got away with me, because the more I researched what mental facilities were like in Soviet Russia, the more I felt sick and the more I felt tears, and the more I wrote a very disjointed piece of fiction. Hopefully you all enjoyed.
Anywhoooooooo, sorry for coming back to the fandom only to drop a hot steaming pile of angst at everyone's door, I'll try to have something fluffy up in a couple days - honestly, I just need a palate cleanser after this. here's some prompt lists that i'm currently working on should anyone want to hit me up with a prompt from any of them: whumptober 2k19 | fictober 2k19 | fictober 2020 | whumptober 2020
some quick info:
One of the drugs burned*: Sulfozinum, caused a rise in body temperature and severe pain. Used in the Soviet Union for "treatment" of various things, it's been more than suggested that it was mostly used as punitive applications for those in the psychiatric prisons - I mean, hospitals, then any psychological benefit. Patients would also have muscle necrosis, immobility and fever.
All this because he had been caught with a pamphlet*.: A good amount of people placed in punitive psychiatric hospitals were those who wrote, spoke out, and held beliefs of social reforms or just said things that the sensitive as fuck Soviet government thought was in some way offensive.
he had to be punished*.: The Soviet Union was really insecure if nobody liked it and so was just threw everybody they could find who didn't like them in horrible places with horrible conditions and were just horrible. Again, fuck the soviet union and everyone who thought it was a good idea, it fucking sucked.
governments had no right to punish a nation, it was an written rule*: A personal headcanon of mine. I figure that nations don't particularly like it when their governments try to interfere in what they consider "nation business" and as such have it written somewhere that nations deal with nations no matter what.