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A few candles, the really old-fashioned type, illuminate what would otherwise be a completely dark room. It smells of some wood—of which kind? I was never troubled with—likely seeping from the floor. It was a wood floor, after all; one that makes a hollow-ish sound when one steps down. Really, it is quite pleasing.
Fyodor Dostoevsky sits at his desk, with his books, and his pens, and whatever else he requires. His desk and chair, and namely himself, are stationed on the ceiling, his head pointed downward to the ground several feet below. Come to think of it, so are the candles…
No, I apologize. I forget I lay upside down at this time. Or, at least my head is upside down as it hangs off the side of his rather uncomfortable bed. My hands are folded over my chest, for the time being, until they undoubtedly move to wherever they are to go next.
Surprisingly, Fedya does not mind my—Nikolai Gogol, if the character tags did not call upon your inference—being here. One might naturally assume it would; Fedya almost always prefers to be alone, and that of course includes his work. But, as he repeatedly assures me of, he does not mind the company I provide. What he does, I do not inquire. For one, it would most certainly annoy him. And two, it would most certainly bore me. No, I do not care much for what he does, just that Fedya is the one who does it. I merely hope I do not disturb his work too incessantly. Despite this—
“Are you hungry, Dos-kun?”
“Mm.”
He negatively inflects this to me—trust me, I have a knack for interpreting his ‘mm’s—then continues.
“I ate a couple hours ago.”
He seems to think one should go hours without food, to which I shake my head. “That won’t do. I’ll make snacks!” I declare cheerfully in his direction, as he still faces away.
I flip my body around so it faces the correct direction and prance toward the door—which still creaks, by the way. Though, I do not think the room would have the same… ‘charm’ it has now , if it were to be fixed. I leave before I have the chance to hear him deny my request or say any remark on the matter, not that he would.
You probably wonder why I verbally refer to Fedya by a different name than that which is used in my narration. Well, you see, once Fedya told me he did not wish to be referred to as ‘Fedya’, so of course, such wishes are respected… to his face, that is. As for my own mind, however, I take such liberties as to use the name I wish. How mischievous of me, I know.
He most certainly knows this of course, this is my dear Fedya we speak of. But, this only makes the affair all the more mischievous. That man is capable of many things, but taking away my thoughts? …Well, not this thought, at least. The others cannot be securely vouched for.
After placing the final garnishes on the aforementioned snacks, and having successfully cut down the unlucky few that usually—and quite helplessly—end up devoured by my tedious plating process, I bring the platter back to him.
“Dos-kun! Dos-kun! I made the sna~acks!” I call out. If one does love a dramatic exit—and I most certainly do—one must also love a dramatic entrance, if only to maintain symmetry. In any event, I set the plate down carefully on his desk, making it particularly certain that I do not disturb the wonderfully meticulous plating I so devised. Objectively speaking, such a masterpiece would make god himself weep if it was brought to him.
Although, now that I ponder as such, I realize I must disturb such an arrangement, so as to abide by my own principles. To reconcile, I snag a few to munch on before returning to his bed. I know, I know, ‘what about the crumbs?’ you must be asking. Fret not! I am very tidy when it comes to this sort of thing.
“Thank you.”
Fedya is still clearly absorbed in the stack of papers he looks down upon.
I smile. “My pleasure!”
Such is our life. Fedya works, and I watch–
Though it should be clarified, watching is not all I am good for. I would surely get bored out of my mind, not going as far as to suggest Fedya could ever bore me. That man is capable of many things, but boring me? He could do nothing but dream of such fantasy. My time is occupied alongside many fun activities, you see. For instance, every now and again my juggling act gets rusty, and we simply cannot have a tragedy of such magnitude. And there are still many instruments I have yet to master. Woefully indeed, it is a rather daunting endeavor, but I shall endure.
So he works, while my time occupies itself, and every now and again I remind him to eat. Our days pass us by in such a familial routine as this. And such is our life, for the time being. Both you and I know it is not in the stars to continue this way, but in my humble opinion, it is quite a nice life to have had for any length of time.
There is no transitional opportunity from this day to the one I wish to speak of next, so I apologize for the apparently jarring change of setting.
Fedya and I had only met a few days prior to this moment I have yet to share, the details of which I shall spare you from. I will try my hardest to refrain from giving preface to the events, so as to let them speak for themselves. If my storytelling ability proves capable, that should eventually include the purpose behind my telling of it.
I move you out of the dimly candlelit room and into the bright light of the sun. I now sit cross-legged on a bench at a local park. There is nothing special about the park in any way, although it does house such lovely benches. Surely, it surprises no person to learn that I enjoy bird watching. The exact species of each bird has thus far eluded me, but I had slowly been gathering information on their behavior and flight patterns. There are some kinds I only ever see in trees. There are also some I only ever see on the ground, as if the mere act of flight tires them.
Thinking befalls me as to whether such things indeed occur; it should naturally serve that walking with those stubby legs would prove far more tiring. But, if it was, would they take even the slightest notice? Or is the illusion of rest, as if that lack of flight is inherently restful, enough to make the little things happy ?
Or perhaps, is the act of choosing not to fly in itself a type of flight?
Enough about the birds, this story is not about them. It is about myself and the person currently blocking my view from watching those birds—Fedya, naturally. He sits next to me on that bench, interlacing his fingers in a way that feels practiced.
“Why, good afternoon, Dostoevsky-kun!” Ah! that rhymed! “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I had a question I wanted to ask you.”
“O~ho? I love questions! By all means, do proceed!” I reach out a palm in his direction. If my memory serves, I concurrently wonder why this inflammatory demeanor was failing to put him off, as it assuredly does to most.
He waits a few seconds, as if that is the process by which things must go by, or perhaps only to heighten my anticipation. Then his head tilts ever so slightly, so that a strand of hair falls in front of the side of his cheek, and asks.
“Why did you agree to join the Decay of Angels?”
If Fedya were to ask me a similar question now, I would have answered with bursts of laughter. It is terribly funny to picture a serious expression on my face, but nevertheless, that is how it transpired that day. Though, ‘serious’ hardly acts as a truthful descriptor of my expression at any given hour.
And it was a valid question to ask, for most people. I know, I had promised not to divulge, but—Fedya had approached me, and I had agreed to join the Decay without much thought. Really, anyone would take suspicion to such lack of apprehension.
With the privilege of retrospect, however, I now know Fedya is not just Anyone. He most certainly knew my answer before he had even asked. But of course, no such privilege was known to me then. So, in my mind, this question was perfectly natural, even expected.
Outside of my mind again, I trace my eyesight along the clouds, likely accompanied with an absentminded breath or two. I raise a finger to my chin and spout, “Hm, let’s see…” to pass the time as I think. His gaze is finally met by my own. “Do you like birds?”
His eyes do not falter. They do not tell me anything at all.
“Some I’m able to get along with fine, sure.”
I find myself somewhat bothered, though I know it to be foolish. ‘What an interesting way to not answer a question,’ among other ruminations, flood my mind. ‘Was it foolish of me to have wanted a genuine answer to my obviously disingenuous question?’
“I love birds,” I now verbally continue, turning my head skyward once more. “The full freedom of flight, not bound to such petty things as gravity… that’s what I long for.”
“In joining the Decay, this desire of yours would be satisfied?”
“Yes,” I declare with certainty.
He looks at me as if he wants me to continue. No… as if I will continue. As if he had already predicted such an outcome with perfect certainty. He is right, of course, as I usually do continue to my soul’s content for any length of time my listener provides. Yet, I realize, in order for his gaze to be noticed at all, there must have been some pause for me to take such notice. I had never paused before, surely not to take notice of what one’s eyes convey.
I shake the thought and nevertheless oblige. “What we consider to be ‘freedom’ is wrong. We merely factor in our daily actions, but never the motivations behind those actions. Never our instincts or beliefs. It’s human nature to fear opening up those inquiries to begin with.” I say this without a care, as I have done a great many times. “If one is Free, truly Free, surely they must be able to do anything , no matter if it is what they want.”
“So, joining the Decay is not what you want?”
I ponder over whether my answer should consist of a lie. Something, not quite a gut feeling, tells me it need not. “Of course it isn’t.”
He stares back at me for what must have been a dozen seconds or so. I now wonder if he was ever truly thinking of what to say during any length out of those seconds. In reality, he undoubtedly required not a single one.
“Magnificent… In opposition to God, you are fighting in order to lose sight of yourself.”
I think, for this instant alone, the world was without sound. I could not hear the small talk of passersby, I could not hear the rustling of trees, I could not even hear the flight of birds overhead.
I am sure my eyes were sparkling something like stars, but alas; not even Fedya’s eyes reflected enough light to serve as a window onto my own.
For a while, for a rather long while, no words had left my lips. When they did, they pried a foolish question. “…Do you mean that?”
See? How foolish. Not to imply the answer was obvious all along, but to instead convey the opposite. No, the knowledge as to what Fedya does or does not ‘mean’ will likely forever elude me. Had he truthfully found my motives magnificent? Had he truthfully understood?
“I can think of no one better suited for this job.”
I believe people find meaning in things that do not exist. Their vision tints any reality to fit their existing conception of reality. Indeed, they hardly change, as if they are prohibited from it. Surely enough, I was granted false meaning in those words, as he assuredly intended of me.
Was it foolish of me to have wanted a genuine friend… to have accompanied my obviously disingenuous self?
See, these nights on his bed behind his desk, the smells of wood filling my nose, they give me time to think.
Such is our life, on a night such as this.
Back in this room, his quill glides across a document yet to be—yes, he writes with a quill, feather and all. The scraping sounds are nice, they may yet put me to sleep.
There exists a certain, natural ignorance of the human mind. Such an ignorance that tells them their own morality is to be a worthy judge, if not the sole judge, for which they themself should live their waking life.
I look into any person, and I see nothing but this ignorance. This sight of mine may seem brash, vaguely idiotic, but I do not view ignorance in this regard as a negative. I quite envy it.
But Fedya is not that. Fedya’s mind can freely—yes, freely—exist outside this ignorance. That man can do anything.
So I am left watching. Watching as my eyes spring themselves open in response to one paper’s crinkle flipping to its blank counterpart. Truly, all I seem to do is watch; it may well be all I am good for in the end.
Don’t you understand? I am nothing to Fedya but a mere addition. No, perhaps I am not deserving even of that title. For what would I be an addition to? His life? No, surely I add nothing in that regard. A warm body to his bed as—and only as —he works? Do not make me laugh. His work, then? Surely, definitionally speaking, this applies. But the application ends there. If I no longer breathed life into this world, he would choose another. That would be all.
Even then, I…
I lose my train of thought. The next thing I feel is my cheek against the bed’s fabric. I realize, after I open my eyes to the sun’s edges, that I lost my train of thought only because I had fallen asleep. It is not long before the newly introduced sun causes my nose to scrunch. I lay exactly where I had remembered myself being last: on the outward edge of the bed facing away from most of it, and towards Fedya’s desk. Oh, Fedya isn’t at his desk anymore—
I feel the shifting movements of someone inhaling and exhaling on the part of the mattress my back is turned to. It is as if, even while asleep, Fedya can decipher my thoughts.
I shift around the mattress myself, if only to do my watching from a better view. The warm, marigold sunlight exposes one side of his face, yet he appears unbothered by the light. The window’s beams plaster a patterned shadow on the bed, which crawls up to the adjacent wall, connecting the two. Stray specks of dust get reflected along the way, hanging stagnant in the air. I am unsure as to whether or not I have ever seen this room during such quiet hours of morning.
And Fedya. Fedya almost looks to be smiling softly. I wonder if this is a trick of the light, or perhaps my own tiredness; or, perhaps, a certain ignorance. There are very few instances for which I am able to see Fedya smile.
Although I have stolen this space, his space, with this body of mine, perhaps it was worth it to watch those lifted corners of his lips.
Oh, but to do more than merely watch…
Ah, it occurs to me I have not yet finished detailing my scrambled thoughts of yesterday. I shall pick up where I left off. If you desire a refresher, one can be found six paragraphs prior.
All of what I have laid out is known to me; but, you see, knowing hardly changes anything. No matter how much I learn of my nature—no matter how much I watch—my nature it remains. After all is said and done, the sight of his false smile alone is still enough to satisfy me.
Such is our life. Our life, that is, until I am free.