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The first few days were more excruciating than he could have imagined an injury to be. With what remained of his mind he had reasoned that no matter how bad he would not make a sound, he may be heard, he could no longer confidently say what ears were listening. The escape was planned, of course, Fyodor Dostoevsky was not going to disappear into the ether. For as many times as he awoke, having had dreamt of his death, that would never have been it. Even if he were to be staked through the heart, it would not have killed him, simply because he could not accept himself dying in such a way. But alone, and cold, with wet grass staining his clothes and leaving him even colder, with this pain that squeezed him so tightly, with the shivers that urged him to regurgitate the nothing in his stomach, yet being unable to scream or wail like the mad man he believed he had turned himself to be to save his life…
There was nothing he could imagine to turn to. Not after what he had done. At the least, he had escaped Meursault, somehow alive, with the chill of the air raising his skin, and he had connections to turn to.
Three days after his surgery he had felt a wetness on the bottom of his eyelashes as he stared at the stump. Skin graft injuries still healing, the bruises reaching higher than he cared for, like a stomped fruit. With all these colours scattering, it looked like a poorly planned out painting. The most disgusting, muddy colours, and they all lived on him, and would remain there. Those scars, almost careless— yet what option had he had? His money, his leverage, everything was running out, and he feared that his time would be next had he not found a solution for it. This was the best Fyodor Dostoevsky would be able to do.
He couldn’t help but bring the stump and touch it to his forehead, sucking in hot breath, eyes shut so tight (perhaps if he wished hard enough, when he opened it, this all would be gone). But he could not escape it. When he sees it again, as ugly, and painful as it is, he wants to break and lean his head on something warm that isn’t there; he hears himself screaming loud, louder and louder, until he doesn’t have any breath left in his sick lungs, and he feels hot with how much blood is flushed across his body, racing to go somewhere, maybe escape. For a second he goes to put his hands up and stretch the skin of his neck back, as if it would hold himself together, but he feels a pang when the sensitive injury touches his own flesh, and he can’t even touch his own body. His frustration somehow grows grander, and he feels more anger than he had ever felt in his life, wishing to thrash around and slam his head on the wall, to rip himself apart with the nearest object he could find. His body would become red ribbons of cut meat, and he would be free of himself, and he didn’t do it. He didn’t do anything but slam his fist into his leg, unable to control his emotions, cursing himself, aware he has just created another huge bruise that his anaemic body couldn’t handle, before letting his body fall on his back, on the hard slab of a bed, with his arms uselessly resting on his sides. Why take just one? Why not take all his limbs, for he felt as futile and pointless as a little cloth doll on a young child’s windowsill, and he sunk into his own misery and stung his own eyes with hot tears pooling at his eyes, until he once slipped into unconsciousness again.
Now, he figured that if he could pretend it simply was not part of him, some deformed, abnormal growth that did not belong there, he may be able to pretend as if it would disappear one day, and he would be alright. For now, it was not working, but his breath seemed to rattle his ribcage when he brought it in and stared at his right nub, that thing, and he had to stop himself from weeping in a pathetic quiet way, for all the strength to holler for God to justify this had left his bones. He could hide it well enough for the world, not himself no, he could not help but feel like an act; a performer trying to hide his greatest secret, trying to make himself smaller and less suspicious— not because he was a convicted terrorist, prison escapee, sought after by multiple governments; he feared any person, any civilian he would never know nor care to learn about, would see what he was missing. Would see how quickly his power is taken from him, they would gaze through him into his soul and in his plum eyes they would see every meltdown he had due to this imperfection, this thing that he could not avoid. So he wore his thick heavy coat close, letting his right arm fall limp inside of it, and using his left to clutch the front of it so tightly so it wouldn’t expose him.
Fyodor walked in a little inching pace, fast, quiet, his heels strained with every toe tip he took. The more invisible he was, the better. Showing his face to any police department in Yokohama might as well had been the same thing as him letting himself bleed out that day he had ruined it all, so unfortunately seeing Alexander was quite out of the question. It was not to fall to his knees and beg, it was to relieve him of his post… in that thought, with his hand grazing the rock wall, he thinks about who would never allow himself to get caught, who he knew he at least would not have to struggle to find. Someone who would loyally remain to their post, no matter the issue… and he sighs and goes in, a foot in front of the other, ready to take the leash off another dog.
His… breath rushes uncharacteristically fast, almost a sputter, and he swallows it down just as quickly. Goodness, he says, his body tensing, Ivan had actually taken it too far this time. Fyodor knew just how obsessive, from detail to detail he would breathe it in and sink it into his skin. But to take “remain here” as directly as to lay himself on the clearing and not move. Fyodor, continuing to step closer, feeling uneasy at the dark circle on the stones surrounding where Ivan laid, asked himself how the man felt comfortable enough to actually sleep there. Even with the sun on his face, even laying on stone ground. Fyodor mused for a brief second, believing maybe he could chastise Ivan for being too blunt then remark how he had too known how it was like, falling asleep on a hard bed with the white hospital light on his eyes… his eyes flickered for a second to his side where his arm had a stump, and he pondered if he would actually be able to hide something like that from someone like Ivan, who would—
Running wasn’t fast enough. He skidded, knees almost buckling when he reached the body. He heaved, panic racing through his body, not understanding what was happening. The dark spot which seemed to grow from Ivan’s midsection on the ground was dark, dark blood. It must have been old, it was seeped into the stones, into the ground, and it didn’t stain his clothes. Ivan’s mouth had blood caked around it, that black paint trailing from slightly open mouth down his cheeks. This didn’t make any sense. In some pathetic attempt he leaned his ear over Ivan’s mouth, wishing to even hear a death rattle, any sort of noise, but the body must have been laying by itself, alone, for a long time. Too long. But it didn’t smell… like it should have, the flesh wasn’t rotting off his bones, he was not returning to the earth. Was this what Ivan meant by waiting until the end of days for him? Had he willed himself to stay like this until Fyodor would find him?
A finger trails Ivan’s face, and he gently moves the lock of hair in the middle of his face away. He takes off the bandages around his head, attempts to wrap it around his stomach, where some wicked thing had pressed him in the middle. Fyodor remembers wrapping bandages around Ivan’s stomach when they first met, where Ivan had been hiding a stab wound and had passed out on his wooden floor. His hands linger on this gesture he is making, with the bandages, how they will not do anything but make it easier for him to ignore the cruel way the man’s organs had been crushed. Fyodor’s hand stares at the scars that are drawn across Ivan’s forehead like a crown of thorns; was this what Ivan had been hiding underneath all that time? He had seen some hints of it somewhat, at times, but Ivan wore those bandages every time he saw him, if not he had some elaborate haircut to hide his forehead. He keeps staring at this, with Ivan’s head rested on his knee (which was rapidly losing circulation), and with his thumb tracing the scars, he thought: This is where his head splits .
The sun shines on Ivan’s pale eyelashes, shines on the top of Fyodor’s flat hair. Then he leans over, and gives Ivan shadow.
What he didn’t want to do was leave him there. Not in this foreign land, where he knew no soul when he died, where Fyodor hadn’t promised him. He was unsure why this meant so much to him, but it bothered him greatly, and it didn’t seem right to do such a thing to a man who, for all his faults, remained loyal until he could no longer serve. Ivan was easily frightened, and in Fyodor's conscious, the one he kept, he could not imagine leaving such a jittery, anxious fool alone in his death. He had cradled his body through the trees, until he found, in the outskirts, a house no longer in use, overgrown in greenery and exposed to the elements, but with only the use of one hand, it was what he could manage to get to before opening the door, laying Ivan's body down, then passing out with his body still half outside.
Night comes when Fyodor rises again, tempted to open his eyes and be brought back to a café where Tchaikovsky will play on a little radio, where he will know what his next move is, because his followers would have taken care of it. But he awakens with coldness at his limbs, only covered with his coat, and shivers. His head moves to the side, and he is eye to eye with the closed eyes of the corpse of Ivan Goncharov. He blinks once, twice. Was this as close as he had ever gotten? Why had Ivan never asked him to be closer? Isn’t that what Ivan had wanted from Fyodor? Was he incorrect in assuming that?
Fyodor turns to his side so his left arm can grab his coat, and he can sling it over Ivan’s corpse, then his head rests back on the floor. He is too tired to care about the ache of the wood on his cheek.
Blessed is he who does not reject (me).
If there was one thing about Ivan, for all his faults… he rested his eyes for quite a long time. He could not take the body in a suitcase, he could never give Ivan a proper burial in Russian ground. So he tried to give him something else. A permanent Polycarp, resting Ivan on a field of wild chrysanthemum and other small white flowers. He had no colour, he was so cold, yet somehow, Fyodor was surprised at every second that passed, and Ivan did not wake himself up, apologise profusely to Fyodor, then weep and pray over his severed limb. That did not happen. Fyodor did not fully know what he was doing when he sank to his knees, then placed a gentle peck on Ivan’s cheek, despite the dried, black blood.
“I apologise I had never done it in your life.”
Which is not a very heavy statement, because Fyodor stares with eyes half open somewhere when Ivan is not. Where the wind rustles the ground, where he can close his eyes and hear the breeze whistle something he could not understand. Fyodor is not very sure he meant it, mostly convinced he had done it because it was something Ivan would have wanted. Perhaps this was a repayment. He hoped the ghost of his chamberlain wouldn’t cry, feeling as if his master was forced to do anything. He breathes, deeper than he thought he was going to. It was very easy to imagine what Ivan would do and would say, he begins, sprinkling oil he had attempted to bless from the house’s kitchen, on Ivan’s body; it was very easy to imagine Ivan still alive, waiting for a command.
A match is struck, his body burns.
Mostly, he is surprised that it smells like nothing at all. He knows Ivan would find it in himself the strength to wrap his arms over Fyodor’s head, and cover them so they would not see this, but Fyodor looks anyway. He stares, as the body slowly turns smaller, and smaller. And it is only this that burns, not the area around it, not the flowers, not the grass. Only Ivan, as if he were to say, I mean no bother here .
Fyodor rests his arms over his knees when he sits, sinking his face into them, barely registering his lack of a hand. He felt warmth. He wondered if this was the final gift Ivan was giving him. Master, you have been so cold lately, I am worried about you. Will you catch a cold? Will your throat run dry, will a fever strike your gentle head? Please cover yourself properly, I will gift you the warmest blankets, and the softest pillows. I will tuck you into your bed, and I will watch over you sleep, never allowing myself to obstruct your rest.
Does this warmth comfort you? I hope you have been eating, I miss you, I miss you, would you like tea? What are you thinking about? Can I do anything for you? I miss you, I miss you…
I miss you too.
First leash. Then it was embers, and ash, diminished into nothing. He collects it with his hand into a vase he had taken from the house, the prettiest one he had found. When he puts as much as he possibly could into it, he sees the leftover cinder on his hand, and feels as if his breath is cut short. He rests his eyes again, for a moment, before continuing. He crosses himself.
The Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit .
Yes, thank you.
He stares out the window, a small shiver runs through him— it is cold, it is winter. He does not have an opportunity to leave until the day after tomorrow. Soon, at least, he can place Ivan in a safe place.
The leaves lightly lap the window, where the sun is almost setting. His teeth chatter regardless of the weather, still cold, still aching, still bruised, still tired, still. He tries to focus on music in his brain, letting the notes softly thread in, step by step, note by note. He can imagine the pieces he loves the most, the ones who he won’t be able to hear until he gets a radio, and a moment of peace. He rests on this chair, closing his eyes and letting his head slightly lower to his shoulder where his hair hides his face.
“Vanya, could you make s—...”
There was no Ivan, so he cuts himself off and his mouth stuttered closed. He stares at the vase sitting in front of him, like it was dining along with him. He turns to look behind, where the old kettle burnt on the bottom sits on the stovetop where he’s not even sure gas would work through. He stares at it for quite a long time.
Ivan wasn’t going to make him tea again.
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin slams himself on the seat in front of Fyodor, where he is covered by a dirty thick coat, and a white ushanka that he had woken up the morning with (was it to hide his precense from the public?). His eyes had gone mad, intensity of suns focused on Fyodor’s face. Fyodor sipped, and stared to the side.
Alexander, his friend, spits at him, with hands gripping the delicate tablecloth as he holds both sides of the small, circular table. “And what is this? What am I, who are you? Did you attempt to get me out of jail?”
“Sasha, that—”
Alexander, who is his friend, nearly brings blood down his mouth when he bites his own lip, and pushes his shoulders up, shaking as he continues. “Fedya, why have you done this? I have known you for years, Fedya, you have never done something like this to me. I barely escaped detainment with my life, and it is because I served you. I cannot stand to look at you with the eyes my mother has given me.”
Okay. Fyodor cannot be too surprised.
Alexander, who does not like him at this current moment, continues to bare his teeth. Until he is confused quite a lot, then looks around, his voice noticeably calming, and lowering. “Goodness’ sake. Fedya, where is Ivan? I did not find him in jail. I looked. Or what about that Gogol, the friend of yours, who you have known? Where have they gone? Why is Vanya not with you?”
There is a stillness in his brain, and he continues to blink, shut from speaking, he only sucks in breath once before opening his mouth again. “Return the way we came. You may ignore working for me ever again. This, I apologise for.”
Then Alexander’s eyes grow wide, and wild, as he has seen the implications that Fyodor has hidden by not speaking. He shakes, then takes the table and flips it over, where the cup of black tea cracks and spills. Alexander curses at him before he starts walking away, to the shock of all the patrons, where the owners of the shop run to him, where he pushes them hard and continues to walk out. Second leash. In this commotion, he sneaks out of the second door behind him, to find a bus, to take a train, to take a ferry, to return to Russia. Ivan accompanies him in Fyodor’s bag.
I am quite sorry about him. Did you know I would never do that to you? That I would never hurt you like that? That I never would commit such an act? That I’d never, that I’d never, that I never…
I know.