Chapter Text
To Raskolnikov, walking is a secondary task. His body is thin and flimsy, his legs not very long. And yet, he carries himself, sometimes over kilometers of sidewalk, all the while his brain pursues much greater sceneries. Whenever his pitiful room felt too small for the extent of his thoughts, he would go for a walk. Outside, it doesn't exactly feel safe, but it's relief enough for his restless mind which craves to wander, each day a little more.
This time, Raskolnikov is aware of his every step - the way his pulse jumps in sync, the sensation of blood not reaching his face. His eyes, he realises, are blown open and glued to the ground which seems to rush by, too. He tries to correct his stance - to appear normal, calm, when he knows he is nothing but nerves right now. It frustrates him, and adds a new, risky dimension to his current state.
"What even is normal," he mumbles like he tends to do. "The way these people around me want to perceive me? That must be it. Normalcy. Nor-mal-cy. I am normal. I am. So, what am I afraid of? What am I afraid of? What am I afraid of?" He repeats the question like there's nothing beyond it, no answer in sight.
After a dozen more steps, the words echoing within him are twisted, and now they sound something like this: "What did that man look at me for just now? What's he thinking? Is he still watching? I can't see him anymore. Can he see me? I should look back. I should look back. I should look back."
Instead, he looks up, because it's too late for anything that has happened up until now. Before him, he sees the house of the pawnbroker, clearly. Or, as clear as his eyes allow, because there are suddenly black spots in his vision.
He tries to rub away the damn things, but during the process, he somehow gets frightened by his own hands. He can't explain it - why they made him flinch like that, so he raises them, trembling. He stares at them until they start to look… wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Then, he tucks them away to his pockets.
Like that, he makes his way into the house. The strength of muscle memory alone leads him up those long stairs, past some unbothered workers. They're working in a room, unbothered, unobservant. He walks past. He reaches the pawnbroker's door. He knocks. Once. He waits. Twice. The door is opening.
It doesn't open fully, it's barely open at all. Alyona Ivanovna peeps through, her eyes glowering. Raskolnikov blinks, willing himself not to look away. That's not what he's here for. What is he here for?
"What do you want," she demands without moving.
It's like she's reading his thoughts, and, for a moment, he takes this idea for granted. He's convinced he needs to be very, very careful, or she might figure out his whole plan just by staring at him like that.
He forces his mind into a quiet void, and it does wonders. His brain remembers and activates a series of movements. Before he knows it, he's opening the door fully. Himself. By force. It doesn't take much, he's already inside the living room.
Alyona Ivanovna yelps, but backs up, making room for his entrance. Her reaction makes Raskolnikov feel strangely tall. But as he stands there for half a second longer, the reality of the situation comes crashing down on him. He feels smaller than before.
"Well, excuse me," the pawnbroker's voice is a mix of offence and something else, "Are you going to explain yourself, or would you prefer to do that with the police?"
He shakes his head, like she's offered him tea instead of a threat, "It's me, Raskolnikov. Don't you remember?"
She looks at him sort of funny. The way her eyebrows are creased, he's seen many times directed at him. Finally, she declares: "Ah! Batushka, yes. A good fellow. I remember you, of course I remember you. But I don't remember giving you permission to barge in like this, God forgive me."
Raskolnikov ignores her. "I have the thing. The thing I promised you. Have a look." He reaches beneath his coat, fumbles around for a bit, and pulls out a small package.
When their eyes meet once again, Raskolnikov thinks he sees a flash of fear in her pupils, but it's trampled as soon as it appears. Alyona Ivanovna shifts her gaze from the package to him, then back at the package, before taking it reluctantly.
She focuses on untangling the mess he wrapped the package with, but directs her words at him, "What is this, batushka? And why is it getting you so worked up?"
Raskolnikov feels the air drain out of his lungs, but he finds the strength to lie, "The silver cigarette case."
The old woman grows impatient, stepping near a window, illuminating the object in her graceless hands. Her back is turned on Raskolnikov, who's trying very hard not to pass out. His trembling fingers search for something to steady himself, until they get a grip beneath his coat, where the axe lies, waiting.
Meanwhile, Alyona Ivanovna is making progress with unpacking, dangerously so. He knows there isn't much time left if he wants to act. That thought makes him halt completely.
"Do I want to?"
"Huh," Alyona Ivanovna doesn't face him, so close to success, "Did you say something, batushka?"
Raskolnikov's face contorst in disgust. A repulsed feeling consumes him completely. What he's so violently nauseated by - he isn't sure. With a frown, he directs his anger at the next person that isn't himself. In a blindness of emotions, he pulls out the axe, raises it. He makes it exactly one step, before the haze dissipates, and he drops to his knees.
Alyona Ivanovna jumps at the noise, throwing in a surprised scream. The package slips from her hand as she whips around to look at him, at the shell of him quivering on the ground.
"Batushka, Rodion Romanovich, what is the matter with you!"
"I'm s-"
"You're sick, I know! You have a fever, don't you? I knew as soon as you came in, I saw it in your eyes! Oh, batushka! Why didn't you stay home, huh, why didn't you stay home?"
Raskolnikov struggles to look up, the noise in his ears spreading through his skull, reaching his eyes. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, it's all trapped within him. Instead, Lizaveta Ivanovna enters the room, freezing in her spot shortly after.
"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting? I - sorry. I'll leave," she's already on the go, when she's stopped by her sister's shout.
"Lizaveta, you unhinged soul, don't give me a headache! I almost had a heart attack just now! Look at this poor thing! Look! Make yourself useful, and help him, for God's sake," Alyona Ivanovna starts pointing at Raskolnikov, who's conscious enough to feel slightly offended.
Lizaveta Ivanovna turns back clumsily, apologising, almost tripping in her rush ro reach the strange man. For a moment, she stands beside him uselessly. By then, he's standing up on his own, which only increases her panic. She tries to tell him something, but he pushes past her. The moment he's at the door, that's when she forms a coherent sentence.
"Um, sir, you forgot your… axe."
Raskolnikov is rendered motionless. The urge to run heats up his muscles, but he takes control, and turns back around. From where he's rooted to the spot, he stares down the axe not far away, debating whether or not to pick it up, wondering if it could simply appear in his hand if he thought about it hard enough.
But there's no need, because Lizaveta Ivanovna catches on, reaches for the axe with care, and offers it to him just as carefully. He takes it, maybe a bit too quickly, since the poor woman all but flinches when their hands brush together.
He wants to thank her, but realises how stupid it would sound, so he leaves without a word. He can hear Alyona Ivanovna shouting something after him - or is it directed at her sister? Either way, it doesn't keep him in this place any longer.
Fresh air feels like Heaven to him. Then again, he'd never seen Heaven. He can't even imagine it. He'd heard about it from his mother. His mother. She'd be here any day now, wouldn't she? This realisation ruins his momentary relief. With a new sense of dread, he begins walking aimlessly.
His mother and his sister. He would commit atrocities for them, he truly would. And that, precisely, is the problem. As much as he loves them, he doesn't want them near him. He is in no state, and maybe he'll never be, but he'd rather keep a few decent memories of them than complicatedly create new ones which are bound to be painful.
He is sure of his case. He won't drag them into the fantastic mess that is his life. After all, Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Avdotya Romanovna are his only family. Excluding his one friend… Razumikhin.
Kind and benevolent - Razumikhin almost counted as family, too, especially in their university days, when they were the closest. But that time period is over. At least, for now, for Raskolnikov. As a law student on-hold, Raskolnikov is still looking for ways to dig himself out of his financial dilemmas. Evidently, considering what he was ready to do just some time ago.
He frowns, averts his thoughts. He could always ask for help, he knows that. Razumikhin, for one, would give an arm and a leg for him, and he knows that, too. But he will not ask. He is capable of sustaining himself. Even if he wasn't, he is supposed to be. And that's enough to keep his mouth shut, his secrets hidden.
At some point during his walk, (he loses track of time) he catches a bewildered look from a woman. She's halting her steps to accentuate her shock, the small child in her arms giggling right at the funny man. Raskolnikov slows down in confusion. He can look disheveled some days more than others, sure, but what's gotten into these two?
Oh. The weight in his right hand feels very prominent in this vulnerable moment. He maintains eye contact with an almost apologetic look. The woman looks ready to flee, which the child finds quite amusing. Slowly, Raskolnikov tucks away the murder weapon, placing it beneath his coat.
His witnesses are gone, safe and sound, declaring this particular street forever insignificant. Raskolnikov resumes his walk, but this time, his route gains a destination.
"Maybe I'll try asking for help. Just a little," he thinks as he makes his way to his good friend Razumikhin.