Deny Pt.3

Instructions

first - https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1274264628/ previous - https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1278955504/ next - coming out someday lol **Story written from Sri Lanka's perspective.** I turn in bed, expecting to feel the cool sheets rustle against my cheek. A warmth comes from the other side of the bed, a rustle in the sheets. Is India back? "...Appa...?" I mumble drowsily, stretching my hand out towards him. "Makan..." A voice replies, deep from sleep. Strong arms wrap around me, and I'm pressed to someone's chest. Dad's chest. He's back. He's finally back. He's been in Pakistan's room for the past week, refusing food, drink, and rest. He looked unlike himself ever since last week, slightly paler, leaner, something in his eyes making him look always on-edge, haunted. Not to mention his new scar. It starts directly under his eyebrow and goes down to halfway to the bottom of his cheek, and his iris is completely white. It's as if he was... blinded somehow. Huh. Something definitely happened last week, but India refuses to tell me. He hasn't talked to anyone for the past week. He's just stayed in Pakistan's room, watching over him. As if his life rests in his brother's hands. Does it? We're all concerned, but every time we try to ask him what happened, it always comes out unresponsive. All we get is a shake of the head, or he would just keep watching Pakistan, unmoving. We all know he isn't okay, but we're scared of asking him ourselves. Screw that. He's my dad. I'm going to ask him. Again. "...Appa?" I open my eyes, looking up at him. My thoughts flow through my head at the rhythm of his beating heart. "Yes, makan...?" He looks down at me. I look up at his face, really, completely. The lack of rest and hydration and food are taking their toll on him. There are bruises under his eyes from no sleep. His lips are chapped, his face hollower, more gaunt from no nutrient intake whatsoever. The young, peaceful look is gone; replaced with something darker, and in my opinion, scarier. "Are you okay?" I ask him, and his eyelids sag slightly. "And I'm not taking any form of yes as an answer." I narrow my eyes at him. I'm not letting him starve himself for a week with no sleep at all without a really good reason to do so. And even so if there was, I'd still be furious at him. "I'm not going to let you basically starve yourself to death, Dad. I won't. Not again. I might have not been here then, but I'm here now. And I'm not letting you go." His eyes widen slightly at the reminder of what happened all those years ago. And if you're going to ask, no, I'm not giving you a recap. That's between us. Privacy, please. "Talk to me, Dad. I'm here. You can speak to me." I plead, grabbing his arms. He looks down at me, and gives me a small smile. "It's alright, my son. Rest." He gently pats my head. Nope. I'm not letting that happen. I'm not letting him push me away again. "I'm not resting until you tell me, Dad." I frown at him. "I won't let you leave without telling me. I won't let you retreat into depression. Not again." **Next morning after waking of Pakistan** I reluctantly open my eyes, far too tired to get up and get ready for the day. I splay my hand out besides me on the bed, expecting to feel India's warmth. All I get is the cool swishing of sheets against my arm. Dad must have left early. I feel the rustle of paper against my skin, and look over at my arm. There's a card on the pillow next to me. But no India. **END**