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Razumikhin didn't know where he had gone. He searched the tiny room, the hallway, and for the past few minutes he had honestly thought of checking under the bed.
He sighed, and on his way out, he hit his head against the door frame and almost gave himself another concussion, which was the third one today.
Putting his large hands up against the door frame, he leaned in, and felt the rough, dry wallpaper coil lightly under his dirty, but otherwise fine finger nails.
He wasn't a moody fellow, but today he held back the unexpected burst of anger.
He was almost insulted by his friend today. Rodion, was a very intelligent man, a sometimes lonley guy, but not foolish. However, he was not himself lately. Raskolnikov had run out on him without even a backwards glance. He was refusing his help and that angered him the most.
Making up his mind, he quickly started out of the building and down the street.
He wasn't sure, but he remembered talking to Rodion about going to a certain place, and now suddenly he guessed that he might have gone there after all.
He frowned, not seeing his friend having the strength to go that far, and his pace quickened with that thought in mind.
When he was just about to enter the door of a public building, he felt someone near him and almost ran into them.
Before he could utter an apology however, his eyes worked faster then his muddled thoughts, and he automatically gazed down at the stranger.
Razumikhin felt a slight jolt work deep in his stomach when his eyes rested on the lightly tussled, brown hair, that curled slightly at the ends, and that almost too boyish face that he instantly recognized belonging to Raskolnikov.
His first instinct was to hug the man tightly, especially when he noticed that the well made face was too pale.
Except suddenly the warmth that Razumikhin always kept reserved especially strong for his friend was uncharacteristically missing for a change.
His light eyes flickered dangerously, and he burst out in anger.
"So this is where you are! "
He yelled and almost grabbed the shorter man by the shoulders, but he stopped himself.
" I insist that you go right back to bed. What can you possibly be thinking walking around in your condition?"
he continued and he felt his hands shaking slightly.
But Raskolnikov didn't seem to care for his anger. He shrugged and crossed his arms as he spoke evenly, looking up at him blankly as if he didn't even recognize him.
"It means that I am bored to death with all of you, and I want to be alone."
Razumikhin knew his friend took pleasure in being blunt sometimes. It was a way to move things quickly forward; he always was in a hurry, and he liked to push people away this way.
"Let me pass", Raskolnikov spoke evenly and suddenly he looked up, and his light brown eyes were beautiful, but blank, very blank.
This was all turning out wrong; he looked like a ghost, and he needed to be in bed. Razumikhin thought and suddenly he couldn't stop himself.
Seizing his friend's slender shoulders, he leaned in towards the face. He was almost swimming in those spectacular brown eyes, but his determination didn't allow him to muse over his friend's good looks.
"Let you pass? You dare to say that to me? I should grab you under my arm, and put you to bed."
Raskolnikov's eyes seemed to shift, there was an emotion at their edge's, as if he was coming back to himself, but it was a short-lived moment.
"Why do you insist on helping me. I don't want it, I don't want your kindness!"
He shouted and his eyes were blank again.
Razumikhin's angry expression faltered. The thin frame twitched under his grip, which made him unconscientiously take his hands away without thinking.
He did however insist that Raskolnikov should at least come to a party, to be with people, and to stay connected, but he refused. Of course, he knew him well enough, the type he was, and so he was convinced Rodya would show up anyway.
Letting Raskolnikov pass from the gate into the street, he suddenly felt not entirely convinced about what the other would do in the mean time.
Even insane man can sound sane…
"Ah to the devil with this", he whispered, but continued to look after his friend as he walked away.
Making his body move, Raskolnikov dragged himself away from Razumikhin and everyone else.
His legs were about to give out on him, but his determination to end it all very soon, as soon as he found a way, was making him stay on his own two feet. He was still trembling from both meeting Razumikhin, even though he expected him to show up and his earlier talk with the clerk.
He wondered if he had said too much, revealed too much, but who would look for those things hidden under the rock? If they were all suspecting him, he wanted them to finally say it. Say it clearly and loudly so he wouldn't have to endure it anymore.
He was not going to be played with anymore. If they wanted him, first he would at least go and spit in all of their faces. Of course they had nothing, nothing on him, no real evidence, but they were too sure of themselves that the murderer would just spend all the money or do something stupid like that and they would wait for him like a pack of wolves.
They were all wrong, he demonstrated his ability to suggest that he was the killer, and that baffled the clerk, so he was still strong enough, although it would have been better if he believed him, and then this would be over.
Raskolnikov allowed himself a little passive grin, it played oddly on his pale features, and sunken eyes, as if they were someone else's lips revealing their pleasures with triumph.
The late afternoon sun was sinking below some of the tall buildings, but he preferred the night anyway.
He walked with a quick pace, although his head was spinning. The newly brought clothes by Razumikhin fit him well, and made him appear at least decent.
He reached the river, and regardless of its lightly yellow and greenish coloring, it was still shinning brilliantly in the dimming lights of the city.
Leaning his very tired limbs on the side of the bridge, he permitted himself this rest. He tapped his some what long fingernails that were carefully manicured by Razumikhin against the old bristling edges of the bridge.
Looking at his thin hands, he thought he saw a trickle of blood form in the center of his palm.
Narrowing his eyes, he put his palm as close to his face as possible.
The blood gushed suddenly out, and he jerked his head violently back, almost making himself fall over.
I'm imagining this, it's an illusion.
He reflected, but hastily wiped the blood on his coat anyway, and again he turned his hands quickly around to see the inside of his palms.
The hands were clean, clean enough. There was no blood.
Sighing, he crossed his hands and leaned into the side of the bridge again.
The water flowed almost silently, a few strands of grass surrendered to it, and flowed down the stream, disappearing for a second below the shadow of the small bridge.
Something made him do it. He started to feverishly scan the water. He noticed the small ripples of water form at the edge of the stream, mixing with mud.
Staring at the spot for what seemed like hours, he thought he saw a thin strand of blood at the very edge of the stream. It was dark, almost looked like mud, but it wasn't, he knew it wasn't.
Taking small steps away from the edge, he went around the bridge, and started moving down the grassy wet hill towards the mud and water.
Sinking down onto his knees, he poked the water hesitantly, being just a little aware of his mad thoughts that felt urgent to him.
He put his hands against his forehead and suddenly felt like looking up into the path of the sun.
Far in the distance, he thought he saw something. At his angle, the sunlight was almost covered by a bulky abstraction flouting in the water. The sun outlined its shape.
It's a body…
He stood up slowly, not paying attention as his feet slid down into the mud. The mud in his hands ran down the side of his palm, resting briefly on his fingers, covering them almost entirely.
It was suddenly very cold.
The body came closer, it flout silently on top.
Raskolnikov could now see the details of the figure. The fingers were twisted, some where curled upwards. Stiff and white as a sheet, almost clear at moments like the water.
As the body floated nearer, he could see the head; the long hair was tussled, and some of it was half way coming off the scalp. The face was turned down. The corpse was laying face down.
He was glade he couldn't see the eyes.
Raskolnikov took a step back.
There was dry blood on the top of the head. It trickled down the side of a wrinkled ear, until it dripped slowly into the water. The dress was of poor quality, the back dirty, probably before the woman had fallen in.
"The woman…"
Mumbling, he took another step back, and fell on his butt.
His eyes widened at the impact, and he was aware of his neck and face becoming hot. He touched his face with his dirty fingers, sliding the mud through his skin. Enjoying the coldness left behind by his own touch.
The stench of muck and something too putrid for him to describe reached his nostrils, as the body moved pass him.
He had the sudden thought of maybe stopping the body, taking it out, and removing it from these conditions.
His hand twitched, but he let his arms fall to his side with a small splash, and he felt the water around his ankles as he sat.
Looking down, he almost choked, as his throat worked hard to swallow.
The water around him was dark, dark red, his hands were soaked in blood.
"It's not real"
He whispered, and his youthful, but deep voice gradually started to rise, as he held his shaking hands up into the air, and he pointing at the ski.
"You are good…you are really really good. DAM YOU! Who do you think will win…you think you will?"
He laughed hysterically while raising his hands towards the sky.
The shift of water, and the sound of ripples impacting his chest, made him turn his head back towards the water.
The head was up from the water. On a weird angle, the head was above water now, the half way deformed skull that went entirely soft on one side, was turned towards him. The eyes were sunken, but still in place. There was a stare, an unwavering stare coming from it. The eyes were red, strained, but not glazed over.
Raskolnikov put his hands slowly in front of him, as if he wanted to shield himself.
His first thought was that he was dreaming again, but the mud felt too wet and too cold.
As fast as his body could go, he suddenly jerked back and started moving like a spider up from the water, supporting himself by his hands.
But before he could get out from the river, he lost his footing on the slippery grass, and fell back into the water.
Having the desire to just lay there and be caught by the thing, he didn't move, and decided that this was going to be his end.
His hands formed into fists, taking a few pieces of grass with them. He stared upwards, unblinking for maybe an entire minute.
Suddenly a shadow appeared above him, and Raskolnikov closed his eyes.
Large cold fingers touched his inflamed cheeks and he shuttered at the touch. He felt hands against his face, mouth and hair.
Something leaned over him and he felt a surprisingly warm breath on his face and then to large hands dragged him from the water and into the grass.
Ah…why do they torture me so…why can't they just get done with it. Get done with this. He thought and his face tightened.
"End it!….end it already!" He yelled and grabbed the larger body in front of him, digging his dirty and smelly finger nails into the arms that were suddenly soft but steady.
"Shhh..Rodya..stop it… Stop". The thing said quietly, but firmly, and it was trying to hold on to his shaking arms too, as he tried to rip himself away from the hold.
"But…I can't let you!" He raved, and his eyes shot open; a new fire burned in his eyes, burning whoever dared to stare into them.
The large hands shuddered, and there was a breath of silence, but they didn't go loose on Raskolnikov.
A hand then entangled in his hair again, and this time it was such a delicate touch, as the fingers lightly caressed the strands that had gotten wet, that he blinked, and adjusted his swollen eyes towards the steady, but extremely worried gaze.
They were kind eyes, and the skin around them was smooth.
Raskolnikov's eyes trailed down from the boyish tossed blond hair, to the thin, but strong jaw, and finally rested his eyes on the lips that were almost white, and set in a tight line.
He dropped his hands to the side. The arms bounced off lightly on the mud, making a small splash.
Those hands, the soft attentive hands that always pleased him were on his face again.
Razumikhin...
"Don't shout. I'm here Rodya. You have fallen. Are you alright, are you hurt?"
Those hands started touching him again. They starting at his face, and were going down his torso, but stopped as they lightly touched his thin waist.
"I thought you wanted to drown yourself or something, you…you really lost your sense… raving like that."
Raskolnikov smiled weakly, feeling lightheaded, his eyes cleared some what and he tried to stand, but Razumikhin was still on top of him.
The hands stopped touching him, and he realized he missed them. He glared lightly at Razumikhin, as if it was his fault he felt like that.
"I'm still alive…now can you?" He said and lightly tried to wiggle his body away from his friend's.
"Oh, of course, old chap, of course, give me your hands, I will pull you up", Razumikhin said and he looked almost embarrassed.
Raskolnikov was just about to lift his tired arms when his taller friend stopped him by putting his own strong hands upon his.
"Never mind that."
He came closer and Raskolnikov smelled the surprising cologne on his neck, as his friend leaned in and encircled his arms around him.
Not in the least surprised, Raskolnikov was lifted off his feet in an instant. He didn't say anything of course, since there was no point. His friend wouldn't stop even if he tried to make him. His own hands still rested at his side, and he looked like a play thing for the larger man.
Moments later, however, Raskolnikov lifted his right arm and encircled it in the back of the man's neck, as best he could.
Seeing that his friend felt comfortable, Razumikhin tightened his grip on him and continued to scan him with his eyes, as if he wasn't sure if he was actually okay.
Turning his head away, Raskolnikov controlled his breathing finally and looked at the water.
There was nothing there…nothing. He was a fool; a total fool.
Bursting out in a deep chuckle, he turned away from the water.
After his laugh settled down, he noticed that the mud had made an interesting pattern on Razumikhin's shirt. He thought of his own clothing. They were ruined now like always. He was surprised that Razumikhin hadn't commented on that.
Razumikhin turned his eyes on the street, and sighted quietly. He knew that he wouldn't have the means to really carry Rodya all the way home.
He gazed down, and lifted Raskolnikov's slender right hand and encircled it around his neck.
As he did so, he leaned in and boldly kissed Raskolnikov on his wet hair, earning an almost ghostly jolt out of the young man's otherwise limp form; but, Razumikhin didn't miss much when it came to the other's feelings.
He was glad that nothing had happened to Raskolnikov.
As he thought this, his grip tightened, but gently enough not to hurt him in his weak state.
He told himself that all he wanted was to make sure that his friend was well again. Yet other then kiss him lightly on the head, he couldn't look at Rodya in the eyes. He really wasn't looking well.
He carried the man from the water and the mud and turned to the streets.
"Don't worry, my friend, you will feel better," he said almost proudly and smiled.
"I don't know."
Raskolnikov muttered quietly as he looked with half lidded eyes towards the dead streets.
Razumihkin glanced down at him for a moment for he almost didn't hear what his friend had mumbled. From this angle, he could only get a good look at his hair, which had gone through a nightmare today; the usually soft and rich tresses were tangled and now polluted by muck. He stopped smiling, thinking beyond his friend's physical state; but as he was almost always positive, he held on to the shorter man, and started to walk awkwardly with him into the darkness.