ex nihilo | fyodor dostoyevsky x reader

ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Confrontation

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄʜᴀʀᴍᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ. ɪ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʀᴀɢɪᴄ ɪᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱᴛᴇᴅ.

- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

. . .

Your first instinct was to complain about your accident. You reached after your phone impulsively, opening messages and picking one contact you had in mind, who would always be ready to listen to ill talk about Dostoyevsky. Alexander.

"Sasha could you get here and help me kill Ivan and Fyodor??"

Not thinking, you hit send. He responded in mere seconds.

"now ?"

You chuckled, typing the response.

"It was a joke, I'm just angry at them nvm"

"relax theyre both crazy"

They sure were. You once again laughed, throwing the phone aside. God, if only he knew.

You had nothing else to do in that boring room of yours - you were, without any doubt, nervous - so you grabbed your brand new black coat, ready to go outside. Perhaps, wreak violence to the pavement beneath you. Yes, that would do. You did not hesitate to set free.

Moist stuck onto your skin, cooling you off in mere seconds. The outside was refreshing, welcoming even - as if the gloom was ready to take you in, one grey figure fitting into the rest of monochrome scenery. You were off to the glum park.

To describe the walk would be an agony itself, let alone living through it. An immeasurable amount of the words "why" and "how" plummeted your brain. Your gaze sank low to the floor, heavy from nonsensical thoughts. There had to be at least some solace.

You replayed the argument inside your head, tweaking the situation every now and then, and each and every time you became more aggressive in your approach. With every repetition Fyodor would back away more, show a much more human reaction, such that it would prove he emoted with a heart.

In this outrage you found needed comfort. However, to consider it enough would be a massive mistake.

So you searched your pleasant memories with Fyodor in hopes of finding something, anything of worth. You stepped in there looking for fortune, but all you found were rotten omens and falsehood, guilty pleasures and doubt.

Which one was right? Your own intuition, which had predicted Fyodor already and said: yes, the man cared, you must have understanding, who would know what happened to him.

Or Alexander's advice and common sense, which spoke: he cared not, all of that he had done was but a game to keep you loyal.

There was plenty of which spoke against Fyodor, yet plenty spoke for him. The absurdity of these opposing facts only riled you up.

You stretched your memory even further, reaching out to your father. He was the only person in your life whose love did not falter, whose love couldn't be questioned. You missed him dearly, now more than ever.

Then, he. The madlad who you dared call your dearest, yet his existence was destined to end harshly, your love was predetermined to doom. He assured you of it. Once he was gone, the burden of his was no longer yours. It was a relief as much as a tragedy. You chased off the memory of him as well - he had the habit of appearing in the most inappropriate moments, this one included.