The Adress

"Good afternoon." He stood behind the chair, gripping the back. Once the camera had started rolling he felt like everything he'd written down was nonsense. "Firstly, I'd like to adress the families of the naval crew. I'm terribly sorry for your loss. The loss of a family member is one of the worst things that can happen to us," the brown eyes of the jewish girl flashed before him. He gripped the chair harder. "We're still trying to figure out what the cause of the explosion was, and I promise we will get answers." His mouth was parched and his tongue felt like sandpaper. His words cut the top of his mouth, he wished he could just stop speaking, lower himself into his chair and bury his face in his hands. Little did he know that this would be one of the easier speeches he had to make during his term as president. "We've already ruled out an attack by a foreign nation. The most plausible cause is a defect in part of the submarine." He glanced down at the paper. What had he written after that? "Secondly," but he couldn't read his handwriting. He smiled a sad and defeated smile; the public would later buy it as true sorrow, but he'd already forgotten about the 122 dead men. He was pulled into her brown eyes again. He saw her hands reach out, breaking through the iris to touch his face. He heard her gently call his name, beg him for help. "I'd like to thank the men operating to find what happened. Yesterday was a tragic day for this nation." He nodded. The cameraman stopped filming. 

"You didn't say anything about being late?" Lottie asked. 

"Lottie, I was fourteen hours late, not three days. It'll be fine." He argued. "And gentlemen, please leave, I'd like to talk to the vice-president in private." 

The camera crew hustled out, and because of his standing and importance, they had completely vanished in two minutes. Lottie glared at the President, her arms crossed.

"Listen, Lottie," he started, "It wasn't necessary to excuse myself. I was not even a day late. The people can't expect me to speak in so short notice, I'm not an influencer, I'm the president, I have things going on." He snapped. He hadn't meant to sound so mean, but he did. "And, for all that's worth. You're supposed to wake me up. What happened there? Why wasn't I woken up? It's not possible that the president can't be reached-."

"That's why I'm mad, Alistair." Lottie answered. As she explained what had happened to him her expression gradually changed, it evolved from pure anger and dissapointement to fear and then to worry. "You must have been pumped full of some weird drug because we couldn't wake you. Afterwards we called the doctor, he tried everything, he even injected some kind of serum into your blood. Nothing worked Alistair. Nothing. He said your heart was beating, but only ever so slowly. When he did a blood test you tested positive for alcohol and cocaine." Her eyebrows almost touched each other; that's how far her face had pulled itself together in worry. "He said what happened to you wasn't a drug coma, it couldn't be. We have no idea what it was, Alistair." 

Maybe they didn't, but he did. He'd been far gone. It hadn't been a problem before; he'd always woken up on time, so why had he overslept this time? And would it happen again? He couldn't risk that - he had the most important job in the entire country. He couldn't flake out on it. Or he could resign - he shook his head forcefully. No way was he going to resign! He'd worked so hard his whole life, always prioritizing his career; he couldn't possibly give up now. Especially not for the reason of concentrating his time and energy on being a translater in Nazi Germany. No, he'd simply find a way to escape the dreams. Maybe drugs would do the trick?

"I'd like to see my psychiatrist," he requested. "Make an appointement for later today, after I've talked to the navy and whatever bullshit I need to do..." And with that said he exited his office, leaving the confused and now terribly worried Vice President behind. She, for once, overtook the position of secretary and called the psychiatrist, afterwards she left his room, unsure about why he'd left, it was his office after all...

Alistair was in a position everyone has been in at one point in their life. He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. Unlike many youngsters, he didn't focus on the wrinkles on his forhead, or the greying hair, or even the skin on his neck which was still taught but almost promised to slowly start to sag. He tried to stare into his own eyes, as if they would hold the answer. But he found nothing. He rested both palms on the counter and continued to inspect himself. Optically there was nothing wrong with him; expect for the fact that he looked incredibly tired and of course, was gradually ageing. He was already in his fifties, though still very handsome. 

"Why is nothing wrong with me?" He hissed and leaned forwards. But everything was perfect; nothing was out of the ordinary. He reached out to touch the glass. It was cool and smooth under his fingertips. There really was nothing wrong. "Fuck." He swore and turned away. With a glance at his watch he left the room. Why was everything so normal but at the same time, so, so different?

Of course, for Alistair the world had changed. He had been shown a different era, a dangerous one. But he underestimated how much he himself had already changed. He was slowly understanding more things; other things, and they scared him. Everyone wants to understand why people yearn for power, how they kindle the fire for a revolution, how they hold the reigns to their army. But Alistair had started to learn why he himself wanted power, and now, for the first time, he saw the lengths he'd gone to, and he was scared of what lay ahead. Nobody wants to realize that given the oppertunity, they'd, given enough time, act just like all the terrible people the world has held, regardless of ideology.