Chapter 2 ~ The Truth of my Being
Admittedly the leather binding and intricate golden web around the title would seem out of place next to the rest of her books but Alex found herself relegating older paperbacks from the top shelf to make a home for Dostoyevsky's most famous work. It slid easily into place and she paused, just looking at it in satisfaction for a moment before reprimanding herself internally for her lack of initiative earlier on when she had ignored the disorder in the apartment. A breeze playfully buffeted the leaves outside the window. It rained sparse cold drops. It rained rusty leaves. It rained a thousand memories and Alex sat down in awe of her nostalgia, brought on by nothing more than the inauspicious clouds. She felt deflated and tired, looking out the window lost in thought. Tomorrow she would be back at work and the world seemed distressingly immense and insurmountable, Alex cursed for the third time that day. The sun began to set and she pulled down the book from the shelf, caffeine at the ready. The golden light spilt in through the half-closed curtains. It moved slowly across the floor and pooled at Alex's feet before she even noticed that daylight was fading. There was silence in the apartment, only broken by the sporadic page turning.
'Well,' he exclaimed involuntarily, all of a sudden, 'what if I am wrong? What if man isn't really a beast – man in general, I mean, the whole human race, that is; for if he is not, then all the rest is just prejudice, just imagined fears, and there is nothing to stop you from doing anything you like, and that's as it should be!' – Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment pg.44
Alex smiled as she leaned over to switch on the table lamp, 'If Bobby hasn't read this, he really should. This would fascinate him.' Turning to chapter three her fingers froze on the rim of the page. Black illegible handwriting weaved its way around the Roman numeral at the head of the page, it continued down in pillars of squat thick lettering in the margins. Sections of the prose were underlined and for a few seconds Alex thought that perhaps these were invasive notes and observations by some student long finished his studies, until she read on...
'I have drawn myself completely from this world, no longer seeing in it the shining jewels visible as a young man. Does this make me ungrateful? I cried once at a sunset. The beauty was an intangible enchantment that I did not believe myself worthy of. I feel now that the sun of my life is setting and that I should leave the same scarlet bloody streaks across the sky of a world I have come to despise. I have no legacy but these meagre scribbles and scratchings that will undoubtedly fail me in my quest to explain, or at least attempt to authorize, empower if you will, the meanings and motives assigned so cautiously to my actions. I will scribe in this volume the truth of my being.'
Alex dropped the book on the chair and stepped away looking at it as though it were a real man speaking to her. 'This is not good.' Nervously her eyes darted around the apartment in an episode of unsubstantiated paranoia and she shivered involuntarily and then, perhaps realizing that this whole thing was most likely a hoax, shook herself and smiled self-admonishingly. Picking the book back up she decided to show it to Bobby the next day and see what he made of these egotistical memoirs. She continued.
'I have only killed once, and it was in a passionate rage that I could not control. No, perhaps I allow a futile leniency to my own guilt. I must admit it is difficult for me to acknowledgement my own petty motives. This plethora of emotions was more than just anger at the poor soul in question, but in fact, curiosity at the true colour of a dying man's blood. Shall I circumvent normal protestations of innocence? Shall I shoot to the truth, as an arrow to a target? In some fit of superiority I thought myself above it all for a while. Lost in my own insignificance I thought myself immune somehow. Death has become a strange business in the world that we now live. Justice and the search for this treasure has become a process undervalued and run-of-the-mill. Should it be lent mythical connotations? Honour and integrity are still esteemed, but only as a warrior seeking revenge for his master or cowboy haunted by memories of a dead family in Hollywood's cheap portrayal of the definition of good and evil. When did the cherishment of veracity fade in the bright and gaudy lights of modern society?'
Alex was now unsettled and snapped the volume shut in a worthless gesture of her insistence that it was not real. She ate a late dinner and later, watching the television, found herself consciously averting her gaze from the guilty allure of this anonymous man's intoxicating confession.
Admittedly the leather binding and intricate golden web around the title would seem out of place next to the rest of her books but Alex found herself relegating older paperbacks from the top shelf to make a home for Dostoyevsky's most famous work. It slid easily into place and she paused, just looking at it in satisfaction for a moment before reprimanding herself internally for her lack of initiative earlier on when she had ignored the disorder in the apartment. A breeze playfully buffeted the leaves outside the window. It rained sparse cold drops. It rained rusty leaves. It rained a thousand memories and Alex sat down in awe of her nostalgia, brought on by nothing more than the inauspicious clouds. She felt deflated and tired, looking out the window lost in thought. Tomorrow she would be back at work and the world seemed distressingly immense and insurmountable, Alex cursed for the third time that day. The sun began to set and she pulled down the book from the shelf, caffeine at the ready. The golden light spilt in through the half-closed curtains. It moved slowly across the floor and pooled at Alex's feet before she even noticed that daylight was fading. There was silence in the apartment, only broken by the sporadic page turning.
'Well,' he exclaimed involuntarily, all of a sudden, 'what if I am wrong? What if man isn't really a beast – man in general, I mean, the whole human race, that is; for if he is not, then all the rest is just prejudice, just imagined fears, and there is nothing to stop you from doing anything you like, and that's as it should be!' – Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment pg.44
Alex smiled as she leaned over to switch on the table lamp, 'If Bobby hasn't read this, he really should. This would fascinate him.' Turning to chapter three her fingers froze on the rim of the page. Black illegible handwriting weaved its way around the Roman numeral at the head of the page, it continued down in pillars of squat thick lettering in the margins. Sections of the prose were underlined and for a few seconds Alex thought that perhaps these were invasive notes and observations by some student long finished his studies, until she read on...
'I have drawn myself completely from this world, no longer seeing in it the shining jewels visible as a young man. Does this make me ungrateful? I cried once at a sunset. The beauty was an intangible enchantment that I did not believe myself worthy of. I feel now that the sun of my life is setting and that I should leave the same scarlet bloody streaks across the sky of a world I have come to despise. I have no legacy but these meagre scribbles and scratchings that will undoubtedly fail me in my quest to explain, or at least attempt to authorize, empower if you will, the meanings and motives assigned so cautiously to my actions. I will scribe in this volume the truth of my being.'
Alex dropped the book on the chair and stepped away looking at it as though it were a real man speaking to her. 'This is not good.' Nervously her eyes darted around the apartment in an episode of unsubstantiated paranoia and she shivered involuntarily and then, perhaps realizing that this whole thing was most likely a hoax, shook herself and smiled self-admonishingly. Picking the book back up she decided to show it to Bobby the next day and see what he made of these egotistical memoirs. She continued.
'I have only killed once, and it was in a passionate rage that I could not control. No, perhaps I allow a futile leniency to my own guilt. I must admit it is difficult for me to acknowledgement my own petty motives. This plethora of emotions was more than just anger at the poor soul in question, but in fact, curiosity at the true colour of a dying man's blood. Shall I circumvent normal protestations of innocence? Shall I shoot to the truth, as an arrow to a target? In some fit of superiority I thought myself above it all for a while. Lost in my own insignificance I thought myself immune somehow. Death has become a strange business in the world that we now live. Justice and the search for this treasure has become a process undervalued and run-of-the-mill. Should it be lent mythical connotations? Honour and integrity are still esteemed, but only as a warrior seeking revenge for his master or cowboy haunted by memories of a dead family in Hollywood's cheap portrayal of the definition of good and evil. When did the cherishment of veracity fade in the bright and gaudy lights of modern society?'
Alex was now unsettled and snapped the volume shut in a worthless gesture of her insistence that it was not real. She ate a late dinner and later, watching the television, found herself consciously averting her gaze from the guilty allure of this anonymous man's intoxicating confession.