The Idealist
Dec. 15th, 2010 11:22 am
Raskalnikov sat in the corner of the room and idly listened to the conversations his fellow drinkers were having.
“Have you seen Anastasia, old man Lebedev’s daughter? I was talking to her this morning, she’s beautiful.”
“Her sister, Larisa, is more to my taste.”
“I hear there may be work at Sokolov’s house. He needs some repairs done to the outside of his house.”
He marvelled at how limited the vision of his companions was: a passing infatuation, a few days work. He, himself, was destined for higher things. One day he would be the one they would be talking about over their vodkas.
He drained his glass and set off home. Not that his room could be called “home”, rather somewhere to sleep and keep his few possessions. On the other hand, “home” was no longer where his mother and sister lived, the home of his childhood. Now, he had nowhere. Better, the whole world was to be his home.
At least he could see to find his way along the narrow alleys without falling over. There was some benefit in the white nights; although his mood was better suited to darkness. He knew he was destined to achieve much, even though he lacked opportunity now. As he mounted the stairs he rehearsed in his mind his plan, the first step in establishing his superiority.
Rodja crawled into his narrow bed, still assembling the various elements required for the murder of the pawnbroker. He began to sweat as the night-time fever once again possessed his body and his mind succumbed to dreams of axes chopping up logs that never became shorter.