Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Vasily opened his eyes, he blinked a few times trying to remove the foggy, blurred vision. He didn’t have a second till searing pain raced to his face. he tried to raise his hands to his face, but ill-inducing nausea followed. He slams his hands back down. He lay on his back trying to ignore the pain as much as possible. Squeezing his eyes shut he inhaled and exhaled sharply.

His mind questioned why he was even still alive, sure he was thankful that he wasn’t killed, though death had to have been much better than the white-hot pain radiating from the 2 grotesque wounds on his face; pounding and nauseating. He knew he couldn’t stay on his back for long because he began to feel blood pooling in his mouth, trying to prop himself up when the gross sickness almost caused him to gag. Letting himself fall back down, he was able to roll onto his side and spit up the blood, along with small bits of teeth. Vasily knew his face was maimed, he would be permanently disfigured for the rest of his life… well if he didn’t die from blood loss soon.

After a while on his side, he attempts to turn himself over onto his stomach and arms, he pushed himself up, and this time with success, he rested on his hands and knees, panting with his tongue out. He felt blood dripping from his mouth and the wounds.

“Fuc-, mmph” Vasily groaned, his mouth hurt to open. A mix of the cold winds hitting open teeth nerves, the open gore on his face, and his seared tongue, all caused roaring pain.

He lifted his hand once again, putting a finger near the bullet’s entrance wound, grazing it caused a shooting pain, it received a deep gasp and tears that welded in his eyes. He knew he shouldn’t play with the injury, but damn, the slight warmth of his hands felt a hell of a lot better than the frigid winds slamming against them. Once again he moved his hand to the wound, he traced the edge of it, moving his hand over to the other side he tried to trace it, the exit wound had to be two, or three times larger than the entrance and two or three times as sensitive, He removed his hand.

He knew that he had to get back to the infirmary if he even wanted to try and survive the injury. Forcing himself to stand up, he wobbled as he stood and then he felt another harsh wave of nausea, using a tree for support, vasily gagged, then he let more blood drip from his mouth. Wiping away the blood on his mouth and the tears in his eyes, he cupped the wounds on his face after grabbing his riffle and slinging it over his shoulder. He walked back to base slowly, trying to protect himself from the harsh, unforgiving winds.