Chapter Text
Glistening ice covered the landscape of this harsh land, devoid of any fauna or flora. The views were of a certain winter cemetery whose bodies had not emerged from their graves for hundreds of years. Every now and then a bush moved timidly somewhere, shaken by passing arctic foxes, whose tails left a long trail, immediately covered by new layers of snow and frost. These were emaciated animals, starving for two springs, whose last "prey" was peat, not yet frozen because it was lying at the bottom of the ravine. It is easy to guess that the land described is Siberia, which has a bad reputation - and rightly so.
This place has become a trap for depraved individuals - murderers, rapists, cannibals, political traitors, thieves, pedophiles, conspirators, sadists - anyone who only visually resemble a human, but inside there is a corrupt, tainted being. Every face showed incredible cruelty and savagery, uncharacteristic even for the local animals, which had no contact with humans for many generations. These were terrible faces, far from human, with an unpredictable gleam in their icy eyes. This prison held the worst individuals, forced to do hard, backbreaking work, deprived of any hope, conscience or values. In 19th century Russia, it was easy to find yourself in exile, but leaving it was way more difficult
Among these convicts was someone whose crime had once shocked the usually impassive Saint Petersburg. He was an unusual man, a sociopath, and at the same time sensitive in his own way to human misfortune - at least that was his opinion of himself - what he really was - Dear Reader, you can judge for yourself. Once a nihilist, now he belonged to the trend of absurdism, which was later initiated almost a century later. Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, as this was the name of this victim of the Russian moral court, had already spent almost eight years in exile, assigned to him as punishment for the murder of two women. Much has changed since then; under the influence of Sonya Siemanovna, his only supporter; he converted in faith, reflected on his conscience, thanks to which he felt ready to return to the life he lost, taken from him by the false correctness of the legal system. He was leaving in a month.
"...Student! Hey, boy! Can you hear me? Did he get drunk again? One scoundrel..."" Rodion's thoughts were interrupted quite abruptly.
After spending 8 years in the spur, he learned to mechanically perform all activities in the factory without carrying out any thought processes. For this reason, he was often punished for not responding to the guards' commands. Raskolnikov looked unconsciously at the stranger. As was his custom, he turned his back to the other prisoner, completely ignoring his taunts. Less than a minute had passed when a severe, throbbing pain pierced his back. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his cellmate with a furious grimace stitched onto his mangy, fat, hateful face. The man held a handful of gravel in his hand, calloused after years of work. Raskolnikov immediately felt a sticky, hot liquid flowing down the collar of his frayed, mended prison shirt.
Rodion looked at his attacker with pure hatred. To think that it is just a primitive form of life, a cockroach that needs to be killed…. He was no better. He turned out to be as fallen as anyone in this spur. Unworthy of life. The idea he had followed obsessively for the past years no longer applied to him, now he was on par with every murderer, every cannibal, sadist, traitor - every criminal. All he can do is count on the mercy of God, whose cross he wears on his chest, as a symbol that he and only he will forgive him for leading a life so unworthy and worthy of condemnation. There are no superior people, society is divided into morally corrupt people, liars and happy, although few, individuals. Uniqueness is a degeneration - in every aspect of this understanding.
In gloomy thoughts, he went towards the spur to spend the rest of his day on an uncomfortable bunk, among rats, bedbugs and all kinds of vermin that had found the perfect environment for breeding - dampness and bitter cold. He slowly walked to his cell, where he was stopped rather abruptly by Krupnikov, a prisoner whose reason for being sentenced to forced labor in Siberia has so far remained unclear. He was a man of modest stature, but not without clearly deforming muscles. His face was overgrown, thick, but with defects resulting from not washing it. The eyes were piercing, which made the man's figure uncomfortable for the interlocutor.
"Forgive me for disturbing you, Mr. Raskolnikov"Krupnikov whispered in a tone that did not indicate his remorse at all.
"This morning, I was told that you are leaving in a month... - he paused, as if waiting for confirmation "... I have a request for you mr Raskolnikov. Having spent 20 years in Siberia, sir, I can recognize helpful people. The eyes are the window of the soul they say. Do you understand, Mr. Romanowich? I have family here in Siberia. A woman, not without charms, an old Pole. And she gave me more children than there are grains on the beach, sir. Without my help, the children will starve. I support them as much as I can, of course. I also make an earnest request to you, my boy, to send this telegram to Polenka. Please address it to the post office under Krupnikow's name, they will know what to do. The man looked carefully at the tired Raskolnikov. After a moment's hesitation, the young man reluctantly nodded his head, hiding the thick envelope behind his coat. There was no end to Krupnikov's thanks. The man with watery eyes was deeply touched that "such a young man felt the need to help his pathetic, beggar family." With disgust, Raskolnikov pushed away Krupnikov, who was sticky with tears, and then threw himself on the bunk, crushing the mangy, fat, hateful cockroach under his weight.
He hadn't had dreams since he was sent to Siberia, and the only thing he could see behind his closed eyelids was the image of smiling Razumihin, a
concerned Sonya, and nonchalant Dounia, all of them covered with cockroaches that looked surprisingly like himself.