The Shadow of Chernobyl

A Day in the Life

"Good morning, Mr. Morozov!"

"..."

"How has your day been? Did you enjoy breakfast? I heard there were pancakes!"

"..."

"Did you sleep well?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

A defeated sigh left her, "Mr. Morozov, please, talk to me."

"No."

"Here, thank you, that's progress!"

"It's not."

"That's your opinion, and that's fine, but as your psychiatrist, I know best."

"I don't care."

"I know. But why is that?" A pen clicked, her feathered hand holding a notepad in the other.

"..."

"Ale-"

"Don't... call me that."

"Why? Isn't that your legal name? Alexei Morozov?"

I hated her so much. No matter how I responded or how long I kept silent, she'd find a way around my defenses. What did I ask for? To be left alone? It wasn't much, close to nothing. But no, they had to make life that much harder for me.

"It was..."

Her demeanor changed, if ever so slightly. Gone was the smug undertone, replaced with caution and curiosity, "Was?"

"Yes."

"What does that mean precisely? If I may know."

A sharp exhale from my nose, though wordless, said more than enough regarding my mood. It was a headache being constantly on guard around her. Damn her and her intelligence, she read me like an open book.

Yet, a part of me wanted to be read. It wanted to be let out, to say everything, to tell them what really happened on that dreadful morning. They knew I served in the now dissolved Red Army, but the specifics were somewhere in the corner of my mind locked behind doors upon doors. And whatever was physically documented was burned in the pit.

Damn these... What were they called again? Anthros? Yes, that.

"..."

"Mr. Morozov?"

"I died on that field."

It was her turn to stay silent, probably trying to decipher the obvious metaphor, but I had humored her enough.

"Can we talk more about that? I read in your file that you fought on the Soviet side," she glanced at a particular paper on her neat desk before returning her gaze to me, "In the... Armored Corps, correct?"

"..."

"I'll take that as a yes. From what I understand thus far, your experience, however short it was," rude, "is the main cause of your mental and..." she glanced at my hand, "physical trauma. Please correct me if I'm wrong."

I averted my eyes from hers, locking them onto my right hand. I lifted it in front of me, attempting to form a fist.

My thumb wasn't even close to touching my other fingers. In the center of my palm was an artistic explosion, the scarred skin so pale it rivaled blood loss, the same on the top of my hand.

Over the past, what? Days? Weeks? Definitely more than a week, though I wasn't keeping track of time since my capture. The useless hand forced me to use my nondominant hand for everything now; holding utensils, writing, shaking hands, or paws and the such, cleaning myself, scratching an itch that refused to go away past midnight, and so many other everyday actions.