The story of Raskolnikov
“I spent some time watching Raskolnikov having nightmares…”
I was in Russia yesterday, stories here tend to be more enigmatic somehow; maybe it’s the cold weather or because people speak more openly during dinner parties, unlike in English literature. It was a dark and dreary night — a perfect evening for roamers to put their stiff collar up and walk the streets of Saint Petersburg.
I was there on an errand, rather than to pace aimlessly about. I was wearing my Zuhair Murad jumpsuit but it was so cold I had to wrap myself up in my blazer coat, heading to my destination in heels and with the first signs of snow.
I knew I would find the door to Raskolnikov’s apartment unlocked
Walking up the narrow staircase to his apartment I could smell old meat and medical spirit. I knew I would find the door to Raskolnikov’s apartment unlocked, it always was, as if he lived in a safe village found in children’s stories. The ceiling was so low I could reach it with my hand and it was dark, except for a small light found near the sofa where his head was resting.
Raskolnikov was lying on the sofa, which was also his bed, wrapped up in a cloak from head to toe, except for one naked shoulder. I went and settled on the small table near the sofa. I sat there, looking at his closed eyes twitching with nightmares and demons, willing him to have one good dream even while knowing this was not possible for now.
His face was consumed with solitude, and fear that arrested the mind, showing him the blood of the two women he had killed stained on his hands. I found myself worrying about him, even though he would hate me if he knew I did so. I did not want him to wake up; he has a tendency of thinking I’m an illusion and then he starts raving which is not good for him, so I stayed here, watching him sleeping and dreaming of demons, until I heard Nastasia coming up the stairs.
Story credits: Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment;Vogue China for the image.