The tavern was one of those awful, dirty holes where the very worst scum of St. Petersburg would cluster together, filthy and debase, to drink away their money, their families and their worthless, disgusting lives. Raskolnikov viewed the scene about him with loathing. The tavern was cramped and grimy, and crowded with bodies. They reeked of sweat and alcohol and shit. His lips twisted into a sneer in utter contempt and hatred for these people as he downed his shot of vodka. He was long since drunk and could feel his head lolling involuntarily as the dark, grimy room swayed before his eyes. Hunched over the bar, he rapped the empty glass on the counter and watched as it was refilled. He downed it and relished the scorching at the back of his throat.
Slapping a few roubles down on the counter, he turned to leave. Suddenly a heavy body slammed into him from his right and he staggered with the weight of the drunken oaf bearing down on him. The creature mumbled obscenities, cursing, and slurred an apology. His stench burned into Raskolnikov's nostrils. The beast's company heaved his steaming hulk back into the crowd. Rage flamed in Raskolnikov like a furnace, lighting his eyes and countenance to give him the appearance of an enraged animal. He stormed out of the tavern in a fury.
These insects! These lice! Nothing but cockroaches. They don't deserve to live. Ordinary people, foul, repulsive, ordinary people. They should die like that old pawnbroker, and I should be the one to kill them. Means to ends, just shit I have to wipe off my boots. No one is exceptional, no one is extraordinary. They follow one another in their stupidity only to end it all dying with cowardice and purposelessness. Why not end it sooner? Then those who are truly extraordinary might benefit from their demise. Good can come from their disgrace, if only a character of nobility and fortitude dares.
These familiar thoughts raced through Raskolnikov's mind in a torrent of hatred. His body trembled with exasperation. Even as he claimed to himself that he was one of the few extraordinary, exceptional characters capable of ridding the world of their filth, a sensation stabbed at his heart as his thoughts cast him back to the killing of the pawnbroker, a feeling even upon which he cursed. The axe, the adrenaline, the complete surety that he was courageous and great for daring to raise a hand to swat this fly away from his food. Then the fear and faintheartedness as the old woman's skull caved in under his blow of the axe; the blood pooling over the floor, his sickness as he fretted like a coward over it being on his clothes, Lizaveta's face and his own horror as he realised he would have to kill her too. If he had been on time, if he had arrived at seven, if he had closed the door, maybe she would have lived. There was no reason for her to die; she had done no wrong by merely suffering at the hands of her cruel half-sister. Raskolnikov had only pity for her.
But he had botched the job. Fear had conquered him, and his sickness, which even now caused sweat to bead his brow and whiten his pallor, was a shameful testament to his cowardice and inability to complete the perfect murder. He was an embarrassment to himself, a miserable failure. Was it that he was not special, not a Napoleon at all, just another ordinary, pathetic lifeform, no different to the vagrants at the bar? His face twisted in disgust at himself.
The alcohol was affecting his body more than he had anticipated. He lurched, more than walked, down the streets as his mind continued to run through thoughts of hatred for himself, for the people around him, for the damn city, so claustrophobic and airless, and especially for the old pawnbroker whose hideous bloodied face he, in his fever, saw everywhere he looked. Was it scorn in her expression at his failure? Or, worse still, was it pity?
He stopped at a corner, hand on a lamppost to steady himself as he swayed. A headache encompassed his skull, an unbearable pressure. Bile rose in his throat, acidic on his tongue, and he choked vomit out onto the ground. Mixed with saliva, it hung from his lips and chin in strands, sticking to his clothes, stinking. He slipped in the muck and fell into the gutter. He slithered in it as he tried to regain his footing but to no avail; the ground felt like ice to his feet. Defeated, he slumped down onto the ground and drew himself up against a wall. He looked heavenward at the dark sky and whimpered softly to himself. The whimper slowly became a wail and he pressed both hands over his mouth in terror lest the wail became a scream, a scream he feared would never stop. He sat like this for some time.
At length, he stirred from this position. It was around three in the morning and freezing, a stark contrast to the hot days of July. His long overcoat, soaked in the slime around him, wetly slapped his legs as he pulled it around his trembling form. The vomit clung to him, mingled with sweat, dirt and saliva, and strands of his long dark hair plastered his forehead. He huddled in the gutter shivering, the cold air mixing with his fever to produce a truly awful sensation of burning all over his body. At that moment he was sure he would die – the thought even gave him some comfort – but neither the Fates nor his body would oblige him.
On his right, the street disappeared into murk and darkness. It was very quiet, but he heard something move. He looked up weakly. Two figures emerged from the gloom. Both men, they were bulky and walked with purpose towards him. Through eyes half-shut with exhaustion, Raskolnikov wondered briefly if it was Zamyotov and, perhaps, with him, Ilya Petrovich come to arrest him, his condition the proof they needed for prosecution. But as the two men neared, he saw that neither wore the police officers' uniforms.
They stopped on either side of him. Raskolnikov knew they would rob him and made no attempts to struggle as they hauled him to his feet. Despite his apparent passivity, the larger of the two men saw fit to plant a huge, ugly fist into his stomach. Raskolnikov bent double upon the impact, gagging and gasping, his eyes bulging as he retched in an attempt to vomit on an empty stomach. The man swung his fist again and connected it solidly with Raskolnikov's skull. He fell to the ground heavily, choking, and felt dirty hands snatch over his body as the thugs sought out his wallet. Leaving his pockets empty, he saw them disappear back into the encroaching darkness. His vision blurred out and faded to black as he fell unconscious.