The Silver Seer

Chapter 3: Unresolved Conflict

What meets my eyes when I wake up is darkness. If I passed out after my latest experience, I wouldn't blame myself. It's a lot to consider and just think about, in general. I take a moment to recollect where I am, and the events that brought me here.

I am in my office. I saw my past self from eight years ago in the mirror and proceeded to shatter the mirror. So, now not only is the floor covered in shards of glass, but also my silver blood.

Oh. It's silver now.

Where the hell are my pills?

I sigh and sit up, before checking my hands and pushing myself up with my less punctured left hand, as shards are still in my right. I catch the letter, surprisingly unstained from my blood, on the floor, and pick it up before taking small steps to my desk, careful not to trip or stumble and fall down again.

Pulling out a small golden key from a pocket of my uniform, I bend down and unlock the large drawer on the right side of my desk, and slip the letter inside, proceeding to lock the drawer afterwards. I slowly lower myself into my chair and take a moment to recollect myself before remembering I have to treat my wounds.

I grab another key sitting in the top left corner of my desk, and unlock a large drawer on the same side, pulling out a first aid kit followed by my phone from another pocket of my uniform. I set both on my desk before sitting down in my chair and using a key found under the handle of the first aid kit to open it, proceeding to pull out some simple bandages, as well as a pair of tweezers.

I bend down, shuffle through the drawer, and find a familiar white bottle. I shake it, failing to hear what I hoped would be the presence of pills. How long ago did I take my last one? Yesterday? Last week? Last month? I can't seem to remember. Hopefully, I can visit Germany and get more soon before the war stops me from traveling to and from the country I still love.

Holding the tweezers with my left hand, I cautiously begin to extract the shards from my right palm. Both hands tremble, making the process far harder than it has to be. It's just shards of glass. These aren't artillery shells, thank goodness.

With each pull, I cannot help but think about the resemblance these small cuts have to the longer ones that decorate my wrists, arms, legs, and even ankles from back in Russia. The cuts healed, but they left scars. A constant reminder of my past that I tried my absolute best not to think about too much. I thought I forgot about it.

I suppose the tactics Germany used to brainwash me are wearing away. Ever since those memories began to come back to me, I considered taking a trip back and asking for the Army General there to approve another session, but I never worked up the courage to do such. Or, maybe it was because I wanted to grow more independent. Try and tackle my own past alone.

I thought I was doing just fine until the letter arrived, and my body, as well as my mind, could not stand having everything I tried so hard to push away flood back into my mind.

Extracting the last piece of glass from my hand with a sigh, I take to using my fingers to grasp the slightly larger piece that sticks out from my uniform's right sleeve, wincing as I remove it and lay it upon my desk. I take off my uniform's top, and wrap bandages around my injured arm, as well as what I can of my hand without hindering its mobility, before redressing myself.

I spin around in my chair and reach down to pick up both my uniform's overcoat and my gloves, giving them each a quick dusting with my uninjured hand. I lay the overcoat over my chair and gloves on my desk, inspecting my hands for a moment to visually decide if I can still wear them if I wish.

Quickly looking at the mess of my fractured reflection and silver blood left on the smooth wood surface, my eyes lock onto the pill bottle to the left of the display, and I grab my phone and dial a familiar number.