FOOD FOR THE WOLVES, After three years of a certain incident that happened in your past, you finally manage to get over this trauma. In Russia (your native country) you meet a person you never thought you would see again, or at least you thought so...
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Dreams, nightmares... How could you forget how much you dreamed at night, sometimes waking up from gruesome nightmares sweaty, with labored breathing and your heart throbbing steadily in your ribcage, you always remembered that you woke up with your heart rate between 120 and 130. Oh, how you remembered those times when you had to be rescued by your mother, at least what your few fragments of those days had recalled. Your head hurt as you retrace those doings.
"Mother mother! I feel my chest contract, what is happening to me? Please help! It hurts and I can barely breathe properly," You had said, with your breathing ragged, uneven, flurried and rowdy. You have never tasted an event like this before. You were scared, very frightened: terrified. "Help me!"
A ripple of memories circulates through your mind as you recalled that, and you return to the momentum, sitting in a chair, with a glass of cool water in your hand while you keep your head down, selling your eyes; Your head ached, you didn't want to know anything more about your past now, but you found yourself with an impulsive feeling of continually remembering it.
The past never dies.
At least in your case, you could never forget your past, it persistently tormented you, it was something that you did not know how to control, surpass and keep in its hutch. You felt like you were going mad, lunatic, you just wanted to knock your head against a rugous wall until you died: you never wanted to remember those memories. You. Don't. Want. To. Remember. Your. Damned. Past.
"(First name), tell me, do you feel better?" His voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you blink twice and whimper marginally, taking a sip of cold water. "(First name), (Second name)?"
"I'm fine... I just feel tired from thinking so much. That's it," You mutter. Your voice is porcellaneous once again, of course it was on display for you and him, but you just didn't care to continue. "I only have a headache."
"I wouldn't be so sure. But I won't insist, so as not to aggravate your untimely headache," He draws a cold hand on your head. "What happened in that nightmare?"
"It was related to my father," You pause briefly, taking your time to arrange the thoughts in your head and not delve into deeper pain. "It was very strange... Can I tell you with certainty that you won't do anything with that information?"
"Sure, trust me."
"Good," You take another sip of water, sighing lightly. "From what little I remember is that I was in the middle of a place where it was raining. Yes, it was raining... with blood, there was my father, faceless, with his back turned. When he turned to me he had no mouth or eyes, but from one moment to the next, he put his fingers in his eyes and streams of blood fell..."
"I must admit, it was a strange dream."
"You see... I don't even know what it means. I only know that I live tormented by thoughts, nightmares... everything, every thing, everything has to do with my past before my eyes, Fyodor. What to do?"
You stare at your hands, you see them abundant of blood, your heart paralyze for a few seconds and in your mind you see a gun in the palm of your hands. Your breathing hastens and you blink markedly, when you open them there is nothing.
"What?" You whisper unconsciously, bewildered.
"What's the matter?" He inquired, smoothly. You weren't sure if he knew what was happening to you or was just feigning, attempting to spot out more information than he asked for. But you were convinced that his frigidity made you feel intimidated. He was grim and his grin reflected secrets, darkling secrets stained with bloodstream.
"Nothing...Just a hallucination, I must be paranoid," You take a burdensome breather, shaking your head lightly, perhaps abashed.
"Can be anything. You know what the human mind is like, it has tons of variations and fascinating problems to figure out," Fyodor explains as he strolls around you. "But in this case, I imagine that your past continue to torment you."
You stand up from your gothic Chippendale chair feeling dizzy, but the seasickness vanishes after a few seconds, "Yes, you're right, they continue to torment me."
"It's nothing to speak of. You just have to overcome it, move on that gloomy past and be prideful of who you are in this dog-eat-dog world. You will never be able to heal from that thought, the fragments will still be there whether you want it or not," He adds, with a tone that oscillates between menace and coldness. He smiled at you with that same eery smile that made you shiver to the core.
"Right..."
There was a foreign quietness in the air, no footsteps could be heard, but at no time was there anyone in your field of vision but Fyodor Dostoyevesky. There was something unfamiliar in this room, you didn't comprehend what, but it seemed crushing and comfortless for some reason.
You sighed and glanced at your pocket, where you usually kept a pack of cigarettes and rarely, with a long black reefer-style coat you sometimes wore, with a black 9mm beretta gun. You thought for a bit about what to do, and when an idea comes to mind, an astute grin appears on your lips.
"Fyodor."
"Something happened, (First name)?" He responds you politely, with a tiny smile.
"Can I go out to kill in the city?"
Fyodor blinks, somewhat astonished, but that expression rapidly alters to a smirk.
