literature

A House Divided 11

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Literature Text

Alfred waited impatiently by the phone for his uncle to call, Arthur, Matthew, and Ivan out shopping to give him his needed privacy. The phone squealed at the incoming transmission and he swiped it up before the first ring was even halfway through.

"Hey Uncle Dick," he greeted. His optimism strained as his mind was gnawing away at itself.

"Alfred, you're fast. I didn't expect you to answer so quic-."

"I was waiting," he interjected, "We need to talk."

A pause for a second, "Alfred? Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Perfectly fine! Why wouldn't I be alright!"

"Because I hear your thumb in your mouth. What's going on? The Soviet doesn't have a gun up to you, does he? Say no if he does," his uncle's worried voice jumbled through the phone. Alfred scowled. His Uncle had always used the Communist card to get through politics. The Senator's seat, and even a little during the presidential campaign. But if only they knew what beautiful people lived there in that place they despised. And much to his chagrin, he wasn't thinking of Ivan's sisters at that moment.

"Uncle, no! He's not even here. Arthur took him out of the house with Mattie to do some food shopping. No one is here but me," he attempted to reassure his psycho family member. But this was

"So he even gave you a whole story to tell, huh? He's a sly one I'm sure. Why aren't the Secret Services taking him out if he's got you reciting lines? And where are Mattie and Arthur? Did he already take them out!"

Alfred audibly slapped his own face, "YEAH! SURE! He's got a gun to my head, Arthur and Mattie have their brains pooling on the carpet, and the Spazz-nazz took out all your SS guys!" Silence for a moment, "I wanted to give you an update. Nothing is currently wrong."

"Alright. Go ahead." He sounded suspicious.

"Relations with Ivan are actually pretty good. There are the minor arguments, but we're just acting like children. Neither of us have hit each other and Ivan is more than decent in regards to manners towards me. I don't even feel the need of a gun, even when I'm alone in a room with him."

"Yes, but the Secret Serv-."

"I want them called off."

A pregnant pause, "You what?"

Alfred took a deep breath, "I don't find them needed in this situation. Ivan isn't a bad guy. Communist or Un-Communist, (by the way, they call themselves Socialist . . . like hell I know what that means) he is still a person."

"Says the one who was so vehemently against this Soviet's existence not but four months ago?" his uncle countered. Four months! It had really been THAT long now! He didn't notice the time passing at all.

"I changed my mind."

"You changed your mind?"

"Yes."

"On what? What did you change your mind on? Your people? How about your country? Even your family. You changed your mind on all those things just because some Pinko Commie brainwashed you into thinking he wasn't 'All that bad'. Do you have any idea what is happening, or are you just that dense!"

"Russian."

"What?"

Alfred took a deep breath and relaxed himself, "He's not Communist, he's Russian. And don't talk about him like that. He's my friend."

There was a pause that seemed to last a hundred years. "Alfred, think this through-."

"I have. Good-bye Mr. President."

And with that simple sentence, he hung up the phone and disowned all the evils his country and government stood for. He walked around the empty house and found himself entering the Russian's bedroom. He saw the book of memories lying on the covers, the gold lettering twinkling. The words didn't look like a jumbled mess of unintelligible characters. Though he still had no idea what any of them meant, they didn't look so confusing, but more exotic, beautiful even. And Ivan wasn't wrong when he called it elegant.

Alfred was alone now. No country or government to align himself with, so now he was unbiased in everything. Taking a deep breath, as though submerging himself in water, he plunged into the pages of Ivan's memories to a random page.

Alfred's eyes widened as he was left breathless by the image that met him. Tall, domed buildings that were colored blues and greens, but above all, the brilliant scarlet that seemed to be everywhere, confined in a red bricked square. And all his life he was taught to hate that color. The color of those flags, of those walls, of those buildings. Of that scarf.

Now that color just seemed so beautiful.
Hahaha, NO WAY IS THIS HISTORICAL!! XD I am screwing with history at this point, so HA! XD Thanks for reading ya'll~!
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WinterTimeKisses's avatar
xD
Fucking loved this chapter.

So I totally "squeed" when I saw this update. I am addicted.