The Players: Rodya Raskolnikov and OPEN to one more. What: His arrival Where: The local library When: Not too long after halloween, sometime when it's dark. Rating: TBD Notes: A quote from a great man - "Satire is the bringing to ridicule of vice, folly and humbug. All the negatives imply a set of positives. Certainly in this country, you only go round saying, ‘That’s wrong, that’s corrupt’ if you have some feeling that it should be better than that. People say, ‘You satirists attack everything.’ Well, we don’t, actually. That’s the whole point"
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Rodya's eyes opened rapidly and fought to find focus. Those strangely shaped, deep, dark brown eyes squinted and strained, a look of complete and utter confusion swirling in their depths. The last thing he recalled was walking through the streets, his confession clutched close to his heart strings with the watchful eyes of Sonya not far behind. Outside in the cold, harsh chill of Russia. Perhaps that is what he found so difficult to grasp. The change of temperature, the change of scenery. It baffled him so.
Heart hammering in his chest, he looked around himself. The first thing he noticed were the shelves, stacked with rows of books of all size. Next, the carpet beneath him. And lastly, his eyes swept upwards to see something ever so strange, something he had never seen in his life. A lightbulb. Lit too. Not that he knew what that was. His breath hitched and he scampered backwards, bumping into a bookcase, eyes fixed on the illuminated object that just seemed to hang there. As if some sort of glow worm were trapped inside it.
"This... is no dream" he stammered in perfect English. So much so that he didn't sound Russian at all. "And yet it is no nightmare I dwell in. Surely it is the work of some greater Darkness that brings me here, tears at my soul and confounds my brain. Hath hell been brought before me? Pulled me in? Stolen me to serve?" He tugged at his hair, his knees coming up to curl into his chest. "It is not my will, nor my mind that creates illusions such as these, this place cannot exist, cannot be real" he slowly picked himself up from the ground, is body pinning itself to the bookcase. "These memories, yes, they must be trying to trick me, they have pulled too far... my confession was so near by and yet I am here in this..." he paused. "No, this is not a dream.... But perhaps punishment for my mortal soul? Was I not right, oh Lord? Was I not extraordinary? Was I wrong all along?" he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to regain his breathing. His fists clenched and unclenched quickly, mind trying to retake some form of control over himself. "No... no I was not wrong. I will not allow this prison to be my damnation!" he yelled.