i. arrival [ Raskolnikov doesn’t wake up all at once. He’s warm and comfortable and drifts into alertness with the slow grogginess of a man who has slept poorly and wants nothing more than to steal a few more moments of rest. His tiny couch is oddly soft beneath him, and that pesky spring that usually digs directly into the small of his back is nowhere to be found. There’s even a blanket over him, keeping him covered from shoulders to toes, instead of his tattered coat. He mumbles something incoherent and flops about, and the person next to him stirs as well.
Wait.
There’s someone next to him, and Raskolnikov shoots upright, suddenly fully awake. This is not his uncomfortable couch, this is not his tiny closet of an apartment, and there is a stranger in the bed! Even his clothes are wrong, long pants and a matching shirt with buttons up the front. He pushes the comforter that moments ago had seemed so soft and inviting away, flings himself out of the bed, and presses his back against the wall. What is happening? ]
Who are you? Where am I?
iii. i will survive [ It’s the middle of the day and Raskolnikov is in a diner, halfway through scarfing down a bologna sandwich. He still hasn’t gotten fully used to having food every day, three meals a day, as though bread and meat was in limitless supply.
He’s just reaching for a glass of water to wash down a bite of sandwich when alarms go off, piercingly loud, and he startles so much that he knocks the water everywhere. Chest sopping wet, he stands up and looks around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. Someone says something, but is shushed as the radios crackle on and a strange man’s voice fills the room.
As soon as the voice stops, everyone in the diner rushes for the doors, and Raskolnikov is swept along with them. It’s only when he’s tucked within the bowels of the earth inside the bomb shelter that he’s able to catch his breath and put together what had happened.
He turns to the person beside him. ] Does this happen often?
v. there’s no present like your presence [ The Americans celebrate Christmas strangely. There is no Christmastide, nor are there costumes. They throw parties before Christmas Eve, and even the Christians eat meat throughout the month of December. Perhaps most jarring is the weather. For Raskolnikov, it’s positively warm, even though the Americans gripe about the cold and snow. As if the handspan of snow they have can even be called real snowfall! From the increasingly unbearable cheeriness of the Americans as Christmas draws closer to that Taylor woman’s party (which Raskolnikov had avoided like the plague), the holidays have left him in a foul mood. He snaps at the person who has become his spouse, he snaps at his assigned child, and he retreats for hours on end to write out increasingly irate social theories.
On Christmas Day, his false family would need to drag him to the tree in order to open their presents. Inside his is a bundle of papers, written in Russian: his writings on his Ubermench philosophy. ]
wildcard [ ooc ; Throw something my way or contact me at chaoticgood! I’m cool with prose or brackets, and am fairly OTA. Since as of right now I don’t have any information for Raskolnikov on my journal, you can find an amusing Shmoop overview of his character here, and his Wikipedia page here! ]
rodion raskolnikov / crime and punishment / ota
[ Raskolnikov doesn’t wake up all at once. He’s warm and comfortable and drifts into alertness with the slow grogginess of a man who has slept poorly and wants nothing more than to steal a few more moments of rest. His tiny couch is oddly soft beneath him, and that pesky spring that usually digs directly into the small of his back is nowhere to be found. There’s even a blanket over him, keeping him covered from shoulders to toes, instead of his tattered coat. He mumbles something incoherent and flops about, and the person next to him stirs as well.
Wait.
There’s someone next to him, and Raskolnikov shoots upright, suddenly fully awake. This is not his uncomfortable couch, this is not his tiny closet of an apartment, and there is a stranger in the bed! Even his clothes are wrong, long pants and a matching shirt with buttons up the front. He pushes the comforter that moments ago had seemed so soft and inviting away, flings himself out of the bed, and presses his back against the wall. What is happening? ]
Who are you? Where am I?
iii. i will survive
[ It’s the middle of the day and Raskolnikov is in a diner, halfway through scarfing down a bologna sandwich. He still hasn’t gotten fully used to having food every day, three meals a day, as though bread and meat was in limitless supply.
He’s just reaching for a glass of water to wash down a bite of sandwich when alarms go off, piercingly loud, and he startles so much that he knocks the water everywhere. Chest sopping wet, he stands up and looks around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. Someone says something, but is shushed as the radios crackle on and a strange man’s voice fills the room.
As soon as the voice stops, everyone in the diner rushes for the doors, and Raskolnikov is swept along with them. It’s only when he’s tucked within the bowels of the earth inside the bomb shelter that he’s able to catch his breath and put together what had happened.
He turns to the person beside him. ] Does this happen often?
v. there’s no present like your presence
[ The Americans celebrate Christmas strangely. There is no Christmastide, nor are there costumes. They throw parties before Christmas Eve, and even the Christians eat meat throughout the month of December. Perhaps most jarring is the weather. For Raskolnikov, it’s positively warm, even though the Americans gripe about the cold and snow. As if the handspan of snow they have can even be called real snowfall! From the increasingly unbearable cheeriness of the Americans as Christmas draws closer to that Taylor woman’s party (which Raskolnikov had avoided like the plague), the holidays have left him in a foul mood. He snaps at the person who has become his spouse, he snaps at his assigned child, and he retreats for hours on end to write out increasingly irate social theories.
On Christmas Day, his false family would need to drag him to the tree in order to open their presents. Inside his is a bundle of papers, written in Russian: his writings on his Ubermench philosophy. ]
wildcard
[ ooc ; Throw something my way or contact me at