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The pain, it felt too numbing to be real. Yet he was so close to his most desired wish, so close to getting rid of that fake personality that stuck to him like some unwanted guest. A guest that had mostly taken over his life and controlled almost everything he knew. Nikolai became an entirely different person so he was practically ecstatic when he could feel the bliss of the freedom within his grasp, the warm light on his skin, the soft voices calling to him.
Just a couple of hours earlier, he recalls, he sat there with Fyodor while discussing the plan on how to go about the Agency. Or rather; Fyodor explained while Gogol sat there and listened while trying not to interrupt him with one of his quizzes. He recalls talking about the things he had to do to set it all perfectly up and lure their victims into the trap. He recalls so many things that his mind is full and yet empty; too full and busy that he couldn’t hold onto a single thought that it almost seemed empty and silent.
Silent besides the loud and agonising screaming.
At first it was distant, then it came closer and became much clear until Gogol realised that it was his own voice that he heard. The high-pitched screaming that was caused by the immense pain, the pain of the chainsaw digging into his very flesh, cutting it apart without mercy. The warm blood splattered everywhere, made a mess, stained clothes, walls and floor. It was somewhat of a slow process but it would be over soon. Soon…
His body jerked as if trying to pull away but Nikolai knew all too well that it was hopeless to try and fight this threat. He tied himself to that chair after all, didn’t he?
Gogol’s mouth was wide open and he screamed for help, screamed for someone to save him from this… this nightmare. No, it wasn’t supposed to go like this. Where did it go wrong - What did he do wrong? It didn’t feel like freedom, more like he was going to be torn apart and he begged and begged to be released from the chains that kept on digging themselves further into the body. His vision grew darker with each moment no matter how far open his eyes were, no matter how much he screamed to keep himself awake.
Then. Once more it was silent. The whole room was shocked as they watched the torso fall over and hit the ground with a thud. While the blood continued to flow, the movements completely ceased and so did his vital signs. No heartbeat, no breathing. Nothing.
Could he claim this as his long wished freedom or was it just an illusion of his?
But Nikolai laid there, dead, with a wide grin on his face, empty and dull eyes.
The pain. Oh, it felt too relieving, too… surreal to be true but the truth hurts, after all, doesn’t it?
. . .
For a small while everything had become jet-black and surrounded Nikolai like a thick veil. He couldn’t look left nor right, not up nor below his body. It was as though he was floating in an eternity that was the void known as death.
Was this really what he was hoping to get?
None of his limbs would obey him when he made an attempt to move his arms or legs. Nikolai merely laid there, motionlessly, with his eyes closed and a white, thin robe draped over his body. The fabric was clean without the stains of his sinful blood. So pure white it almost blinded him.
The jester now realized that he was looking at his physical body from above. Then, gradually, he registered his surroundings and took notice that he was resting in a bed with machines positioned on either side of it. A slightly transparent mask covered Nikolai’s nose and mouth, multiple stickers were attached to his body; on the chest, head and wrists and an IV was attached to his hand and skin. Oh, his skin looked so sickly pale like freshly fallen snow and it felt so very cold.
Despite those signs the monitor next to him gave of a steady sound and he presumed that it was his heartbeat. Slow and even, but it was there. He was reanimated.
Currently the room was empty and silent besides the hushed noises the machines made to keep him alive. Somewhere Nikolai knew that he was being kept in a coma but how and who saved him? Who heard his desperate cries to keep him alive and release him from those deadly chains? The man floated above his body and quietly grumbled to himself and the answer soon stepped through the door of his room; a person all too familiar to him.
Dostoyevsky stepped closer to the bed and rested a hand on the soft sheets whilst gazing down at his beloved jester. His eyes were dull and dead, full of disinterest but when Gogol lowered himself to look into the face he saw a small glint of sadness in them. This was only more affirmed when he reached out to graze his fingers over the fair, icy skin. It appeared that the bite wounds were fresh, still bleeding a little. Fyodor tried not to leave any traces on either Gogol or the clean bed clothes but blood leaked from his lips as he bit and bit down on it, bit until it burned and bled the bittersweet blood.
One or two small droplets made it onto the duvet and tainted it in the same shade of dark red. Gogol blinked a couple of times and stood at the other side of the bed, lifting a hand to cup Fyodor’s face. It was in vain, however, when the hand passed right through the demon and he suddenly turned around to leave the room. He needed to get his mind off, concentrate on something else other than this. Other than the loss of one of his comrades. One of whom he held close to his heart.
Gogol was left next to the bed and he couldn’t help but stare lost and hurt at the door that closed behind Fyodor. Near death experiences are supposed to have a positive effect, or so he heard, but it almost didn’t feel like it. Yes, Nikolai felt elevated and free from the chains that once bound him to everything but… why did it weigh so heavy on his chest? Why did it hurt to see Fyodor in such a sorry state? AREN’T THESE EXPERIENCES SUPPOSED TO BE PAINLESS?!
The jester screamed out but it fell on deaf ears. He wasn’t there. No one could hear his voice or see even the faint traces of his silhouette. While trying not to panic Nikolai tried to grasp his own body but, once again, his hands went right through everything and thus he began to shed tears.
“I’d like to be alive,” he sobbed silently to himself and didn’t notice the irregularities that were supervised by the machinery. There were only small signs of them; an uneven heartbeat, strange readings in brain activity and shaky breathing. None of which were acknowledged by the doctors. One of them stepped inside, checked what the ruckus was about and shrugged, leaving to take care of more important things. He had so many professional doctors to take care of him and yet they showed such lack of responsibility? It was their task to make sure that people were in a good condition and not abandon them if something is wrong.
It took a while for Nikolai to calm down again and the ghastly tears stopped flowing over his cheeks. He didn’t bother to look at the clock since there was no need for time but he did it impulsively. Quarter to 1 in the morning.
Gazing around to have a better understanding of his room the ghost approaches the door and slips right through it without problems. This facility seemed like some sort of hospital but there were no windows or anything – it appeared to be shut off from the rest of the world. Each room was only meant for one patient and each of them had about the same size and interior design. It felt a little strange to Nikolai but he couldn’t care less. Instead, he wandered around the eerie halls and shifted his gaze from left to right. He observed as the doctors and nurses discussed further treatments of their patients, quickly paced over the squeaky clean PVC floor or simply took a small break from work.
He never liked hospitals. He never liked how so many people were bound to this building, to each and every person within there – whether patient, nurse or doctor – and he’ll never like the fact that some people will spend the rest of their life in here. This was, in no way, what he considered freedom. But look at him – right now, in this very instance, he is no better than any of the other patients. It made him scoff but there was nothing he could do about his own coma other than endure it until they decided to shut the machines off or he was able to magically come to his senses again.
All the while he spotted the familiar figure veiled in a black coat and white hat vanishing into a room, locking the door behind him. Fyodor had talked to the personnel beforehand and said that he’d like to have a room for himself and pay for it in return. No one objected and so they simply gave him a free room – he was glad that there were no windows and not too many noises. While waiting for news on Nikolai’s health he sat in that little room, in front of two screens and crafted plans for future events.
Most of the staff weren’t too fond of the way the Russian lived; it was unhealthy and only damaged him more than anything else. They’d cringe and shiver at the sight of his hands littered with bites and scars. Fyodor was a walking stick; skin and bones with a diet that no one should ever do. Not to mention his immense lack of sleep.
At this point a lot of the nurses wondered how he still could be walking and handle everything so well since it appeared to be some sort of magic trick but he only answered that he was being guided by God’s hand.
And, not to his surprise, when Nikolai entered the room he found Fyodor sitting at a desk with his two monitors whilst his teeth were sunken into his bottom lip. The tongue flicked over the bloody skin and lapped up everything that dared to drip down.
The ghost floated over to Fyodor and gazed at the two empty but flickering screens. Fyodor’s expression was similar to them; devoid of any signs of emotions or life. Even his eyes were unusually dull – despite the light the devices gave off, none of the light’s rays reflected in them. The bags under them were much more prominent; darker and bigger. The jester did notice that something was off when he first saw Fyodor standing at his bed. He tried to hide his face by lowering his head, ashamed that he would make Nikolai break his head from worrying too much.
And it did make him worry quite a bit. He tried and tried to get a hold of Fyodor but he just couldn’t. It frustrated him so much but there was nothing he could do about this. Tears gathered in the corner of his eyes and his vision became awfully blurry.
This time, when Nikolai began to cry, the screens and dim room light flickered and one glass bulbs broke in the process. The jester howled and cried at how unfair all of this was, how much he wanted to return to his body so that he could take care of Fyodor and that everything could turn back to normal.
This caused Fyodor to flinch and fall backwards onto the ground, taking the chair with him in the process. Just as he tried to stand up, a doctor desperately knocked at his door, claiming that Nikolai’s condition has drastically worsened. There was no hesitation, no lack of energy, when Fyodor abruptly stood up from the spot on the ground to rush out of the room to hurry to his dear jester’s side. He needed to be there. Nikolai stopped sobbing and momentarily collected himself to follow the Russian, wiping his nose every few seconds.
A handful of doctors tried to get Nikolai’s state under control by changing the settings on some of the machines but nothing really helped. Fyodor quickly paced towards the bed and took one of the cold hands whilst trying to ignore the unsteady beeping that gradually slowed down. But he couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t get that noise out of his head because he knew that this was Nikolai’s heartbeat and if that hit flat-line nothing could bring him back. Not even the Book since Fyodor already used the scrap of a page for this one opportunity.
The sound was deafening and by now it was the only thing that the Russian could hear. Everything else drowned out; the doctors trying to push him away while commanding the nurses to get this and that.
But Fyodor held onto this hand and didn’t let go, didn’t let his grip loosen up, not even once. He couldn’t look at Nikolai’s bleak and lifeless expression, he couldn’t show his own but hid it in the cold hand, between the delicate fingers. Two or three tears slid down his cheeks, and nothing more. He can’t risk showing too much of this side.
The ghost was unable to tear his gaze away; he was fixated on the scene, on his body. He wanted to return so badly, have it all end here and now. Even if his instincts told him to cry and scream again he, in lieu, took deep breaths to soothe his nerves and accept this fate. Bit by bit the ghostly silhouette dispersed into thin air until nothing was left.
Just shortly before it reached the flat-line everything calmed down and Nikolai’s hand twitched, warmth slowly coming back into his body. Fyodor, however, still hid his face and only looked up when the jester weakly cupped it, lightly tilting it upward.
“I’m home…” he said with a hoarse and dry voice. There was a tired smile playing on his lips underneath the mask at the sight of Fyodor displaying such a vulnerable side.
“Welcome back,” Fyodor quietly choked and then cleared his throat. One of the nurses ushered the rest of the staff out of the room to give the two a little time for themselves since it was much needed.
“How long was I out?”
Nikolai gazed up at the ceiling and squinted at the bright light blinding his eyes. It all felt so real what he saw in his dream and it seemed like it was the truth since Fyodor’s lips and eye bags didn’t change a single bit. It made him chuckle quietly knowing that he secretly spied on other people.
“Two and a half months.”
Fyodor shifted on his spot and laid next to Nikolai to share the warmth of his coat and cuddle his beloved jester. He, in response, moved an arm to wrap it around the scrawny man and squeeze him lightly.
“I’m back now… I promise I won’t leave again.”