𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 / fyodor x reader x gogol

ɪ . ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ

✎...

The stranger was an odd person to say the least. His name and face had registered somewhere in the back of your mind, though honestly you weren't particularly concerned with it at the moment. More concerning perhaps was the dead body in the corner of the room. Of course, it was by no means a pleasant sight, the body bloodied and mangled. The axe that was with no doubt the murder weapon discarded in a corner - dried blood staining both the blade and the handle. But if you were to ignore the body, the two of you were completely alone.

He was the first one to speak, breaking the stillness, "did you kill her?" he gestured to the body in front of you with an indifferent expression. You have to admit, in this kind of situation, he looks awfully calm, too calm. He didn't raise the question because he was concerned about the fallen body nor did he express any sort of discomfort for the current predicament. In fact, it appeared as though he was merely assessing the situation, analyzing it without missing any beat.

You scoffed, "oh god no, of course, I wouldn't kill her, and even if I did I wouldn't do it so brutally." Murder was an art, you were tempted to say, continue on about having some finesse or refinement to the crime, but you bit your tongue. Instead moving away from the young man before you. The two of you had to have been around the same age maybe a year or two in difference at most; his dark hair fell across his eyes, which were such a sharp violet it made you shiver. However, something about him, even here, was rather... off, not for any particular reason, it simply was. He was someone you need to be wary of.

The man, whose name you still knew but couldn't seem to properly bring to mind, looked at you with an expression that could only be described as that of the bored skeptic, "well if I didn't kill her, and you are speaking the truth then who did? Is there a murderer in the next room? Knife in hand, ready to strike us down at a moment's notice?"

"Who's to say you didn't kill her, that I didn't stumble across this scene after the deed was done?" Of course, that wasn't the case, you knew it wasn't and at your words he looked at you with a look that made you sure he was staring into your soul.

"Who's to say then? You'd have to take my word for it because I cannot tell you if I did for I have no memory of it," he spoke, his words chosen with care, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as his gaze met yours.

"Well, yes." you sighed, shrugging your shoulders as you spun on your heel, turning your back to the man to avoid his gaze. The longer he looked at you, the more you felt exposed to him even when you had nothing to hide. Your eyes trailed absentmindedly over the splotched wallpaper coming to observe the portrait that was hung there; a picture of an old farm painted by an unknown artist. The layer of dust coated the piece in the sense that would make anyone sire of the fact that this place hadn't been cleaned for a while.

"You never really do remember the beginnings of dreams now, do you?" You murmured. Perhaps if you took up the axe and struck him down here and now, before turning the blade upon yourself you'd have enough time to escape in the confusion. After all, you still had a job to do, though perhaps that was best left forgotten for the moment. Dealing with this stranger perhaps took priority.

"An odd remark," he exchanged, casual as ever, you could feel his gaze burning into the back of your neck. "Why would you claim that we are in a dream? And if it is, then who's? I have no memory of you before now and if it is your dream and I am simply a figment of some stranger's imagination, then pray tell how so? How can a stranger build me up in my full, my flesh and my mind, my sins and all my virtues?"

With a grumble you spun back around to face him, "well aren't you poetic for a figment of my imagination," you sighed, knowing quite well that Fyodor Dostoyevsky was far from that but there was no way in heaven nor hell you'd let him know that - you did, of course, have some, however minuscule, value in your own life.