[o30;] is this even a nightmare? you tell me.
Surrounded by birch trees, Finland stands in a modern kitchen, looking very much like the room was simply scooped from a house and set down in the winter-dark forest. Out of place as the kitchen is, so is Finland the same, dirty homespun peasant shirt belted loosely over faded jeans, and he is barefooted in the snow. As the guest, you pull up a chair at the table provided, and watch the shape of his back as he diligently tosses a dark-looking pancake into the air and catches it sizzling on the pan in his hands, and you don't realize how hungry you were until you sit down.
Finland brings you a plate with the rust-colored pancake, and he smiles, and doesn't answer when you ask why it smells like iron. "Did you want something on it?" he asks instead. Without waiting, he pulls a knife with a wooden handle from his belt, holds his wrist over your plate and draws the blade through his skin.
"Tell me when," he smiles.
Finland brings you a plate with the rust-colored pancake, and he smiles, and doesn't answer when you ask why it smells like iron. "Did you want something on it?" he asks instead. Without waiting, he pulls a knife with a wooden handle from his belt, holds his wrist over your plate and draws the blade through his skin.
"Tell me when," he smiles.