More random writing...

The Spanish Inquisition

The Spanish Inquisition

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Not sure if I'll be able to finish this, but I've started something new.



Dec 23, 1864

What a strange day it has been. If only I could find the words that properly explain the emotions and events that chanced today. I do not think I will be able to, but I feel I must try. I will try and tell it without weeping, but I do not think that is possible for me.
It started off normally, although I woke up earlier than usual. I had to step over Old Nikolai to get out of my room. He must have been drinking even more than usual, but if he is asleep, he can’t bother me.
Because I wasn’t hungry, I decided to go for a walk. I suppose it was a crazy idea. After all, it was intensely cold, even with my mangy fur had jammed over my ears and coat pulled up to my nose. I called to Sezja as I left the hovel, but even a dog was smart enough to stay indoors.
The street was completely deserted. It was too cold and to early for any living creature to be about the street, so I walked down the middle to avoid the drifts of frozen snow by the side of the road. Icy blasts stung bits of bare skin, but I ignored it as best as was possible.
A strange grayness seemed to have settled over the town. It’s as if all the color has been sucked out of the world by the stark chill of wind and snow. I had only intended to stroll to the end of the street, but my feet took me down another path, a little dirt road branching off from the main street.
I knew this little path well. How many times had I stumbled up there as a child? It had been years since I’d thought about it. The last time my feet turned down there, they were tiny, stumbling in too-large boots.
It led up a hill to a fence that only comes up to my waist. I remember when I had to climb over it. Now I need only step over the rotten boards into the land of the dead. That is what I called it, I think.
I would go to the place, and wander in and out of the gravestones. I was too young to read them, so I would make up my own names. There was Dmitri, and Ivan, and Katarina….I don’t remember who else. They were my only friends in childhood, and I acted as if they were real playmates. One day I went there, and they were gone. I guess it was because I’d grown too old to believe in imaginary people. I never went back again until today. Perhaps I hoped to find my old friends again.
As I wandered among the stones, some slight movement caught my eye. A little boy sat with his face buried in his knees. Seemingly unaware of my presence, his body was shaking with sobs, as if the world was over.
His sudden appearance made me start. Could this be one of the children who I’d once loved? But they weren’t real; they were something my tired, broken imagination conjured up. Another thought occurred to me, then. What if this boy were myself? How many times had I sat like that, head in my knees, weeping?
The boy raised his head, and my strange worries were put at ease. His face, though dirty from crying, bore no marks or bruises. He gave me a quick glance, and continued weeping as if I were not there.
 
Forgetting the current linking of the word "twilight" to vampire stories, your new story seems like an episode of "The Twilight Zone" written by Dostoyevskiy.
 
Copperfox said:
Forgetting the current linking of the word "twilight" to vampire stories, your new story seems like an episode of "The Twilight Zone" written by Dostoyevskiy.
Click to expand...

Twilight gives The Twilight Zone a bad name.... But Twilight Zone And Dostoyevsky are two of my favorite things ever...

Anyway, a bit more:

What drove this poor boy here, I wondered. Was his situation like mine? Did he have a drunken father whose hand always reached for the cane? Although I did not know his reason, I felt tears come to my eyes. I approached the boy, and, in an impulsive moment, I embraced him as if I’d known him all his life. He did not fight or struggle. Instead, he put his little arms around my neck and cried into my coat. I cried too, although I’m not sure why.
I do not know how long I held him, but after a long time, his sobbing stopped. I released him and he drew back. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Why are you crying, Sir? I didn’t think men cried. My Papa never cries, even with all that happened. Are you crying because of your face? Does it hurt?” Of course he had noticed my crooked nose and bruised face.
“No, I’ve had these for a long time. They look terrible, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. I was crying because….you remind me of myself.” It was hopeless to try and explain. The child’s face clouded with confusion, and he did not speak for a while.
“Is your Mama dying as well?” I shook my head.
“Can you help me, sir?” He said suddenly.
“I will do what I can. Tell me what you need.”
He told me his story. I will not relate it in his own words, but this is what happened:
 
And more...

His name was Gregory Mikhailovich, and he lived in a little house in my town. Every day, his Papa would get up before the sun and walk into town, where he ran a shop. He was left home with his Mama. She had taught him and his three siblings at home.
They were quite poor, but always had enough food.
“We had everything we needed, and I had everything I wanted,” was the way he put it.
His Papa always came home rather late, so he rarely spoke to him.
“I did not care that he was distant, I had Mama, and she was everything. If anything bad happened, I went to her, and even when she could not make things better, it was always good just to talk to her.”
He went on to say that she started acting strange. Sometimes, she’d stare at nothing for a long time before coming back to reality and answering a question. One time, she suddenly burst into strange laughter for no apparent reason. These incidents began to happen more and more often. They worried him, but he said nothing to his Papa. He thought it would be wrong to worry him.
Then, one day, Mama didn’t come in to wake him up. The sun was far into the sky by the time Tanya; his older sister shook him awake.
“Something is wrong with Mama!”
“What happened?” He quickly leaped from his bed. Tanya shook her head.
“I’ll tell you later. You must go get Papa in town!”
“But that’s three miles away.” He jumped out of bed anyway, and began to search around for his boots.
“I know. I’d go…but who would mind the little ones? You know the way?”
“I could walk it backwards.” He finished dressing and dashed out the door.
 
Reminds me of the old pioneer days, when people thought nothing of walking ten miles for a casual errand. Someone long since swiped my joking complaint of having to go "uphill both ways;" so now I say, "I had to struggle through snowdrifts under a blazing desert sun." (Actually, the parking situation on a modern university campus can cause students to experience almost an equal degree of pedestrianism.)
 
He returned as quickly as he could with his Papa.
“Stay hear,” his father ordered him when they entered the house, “You’re not to see her, yet.”
He sat alone on the floor and played with Katarina and Alexei, his younger siblings. Tanya was busy talking to Papa. He heard them speak in hushed whispers. Often, he glanced toward Mama’s room, but he couldn’t tell what was going on through the closed door.
At last, it opened, and Papa came out. His face was white.
“Gregory. You may go and see her now.” Gregory leaped to his feet.
“But Gregory, she is not well. Remember that.” He spoke slowly and without emotion.
The boy nodded and dashed into her room. Tanya was sitting by the bed, holding her hand.
“Mama!” Gregory ran to kiss her, but she held up a hand.
“Why do you call me Mama? Who are you to be so familiar with the Princess?”
Gregory stopped in his tracks.
“But…it’s me, Gregory. I am your son…”
“You are nobody but Dmitry, my servant boy. Don’t tell lies, or I shall have you whipped.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gregory whispered, bowing his head.
“Now, fetch me my dancing shoes. I have a ball to go to tonight. Away with you!” She waved her hand.
Gregory caught Tanya’s eye. She looked at him helplessly.
“Why are you still standing there? Go!”
Gregory slunk out of the room and shut the door behind him. Papa was sitting at the table, staring off into space blankly.
“Papa?” The tears choked his voice, “What’s wrong with her?”
“She is very sick,” he said dully, “She is seeing things. I don’t think she has much time left.”
“Shall I run for a doctor?”
“Do you think I can afford that? Just look at this place.” He gestured listlessly around the room, “We’ve got two rooms, dirty floors, a molding roof, and barely enough food. How could I afford medicine? And what good would it do? She’s going to die, soon, Gregory. Haven’t you noticed she’s been strange lately?” He still spoke with no emotion, as if he was giving him a list of chores to do.
“Oh, Papa!” Gregory burst into tears all at once and ran to embrace his father. The man pushed his chair away from the table and turned from his son.
“Hysterics won’t help, son,” he said in the same dull voice.
 
He would say nothing more. Gregory stood there for only a moment before darting out the door. He ran all the way into town again. He did not have money for a doctor, but perhaps he could get her a present. Maybe then she would recognize him.
He remembered her request for dancing shoes. He thought that he could buy her some shoes and decorate them to make them look nice. He found the shoemaker’s shop and pushed open the door.
The shoemaker was an old man who was missing a tooth. He grinned at Gregory as he came in.
“What can I do for you, boy?”
“Sir, my Mama’s dying, and I need to get her shoes so she can go to the ball,” he blurted. The man raised an eyebrow.
“Do you have money?”
Gregory shook his head.
“But I can work for you,”
“What do you know of my trade? Go home, boy.” And he refused to say more.

So he had come here to be alone and think of a way to get the shoes.
“At first, I thought of stealing them. But what good would that do? I would surely be caught, and then we would be in even more trouble.” He let his head drop into his hands.
“May I borrow money from you, sir? I could work for you to pay it off. And…I know they won’t make her better, but I want her to be happy when she dies. I want her to remember me.”
And the little fellow burst into tears again. I was moved…his sorrow gripped my heart and I wept too. I embraced him again, and he seemed to think it was natural to weep into the shirt of a complete stranger. When he had gotten a hold of his emotions, he pulled back.
And what could I do but help him?
“Tomorrow,” I said, “Meet me here again, and I will have anything you need.”

And now I am at a loss. I do not know how to get my hands on money. I know that Old Nikolai has some in a jar on the top shelf of his room. But could I really steal from my own father? It is true I have no affection for him, but it seems wrong.
I shall think about it. I must help this child, not matter what may happen to me. But now, my hand is about to fall off from writing so much, and I think Old Nikolai is coming home soon. I will record all that passes tomorrow.
 
A bit more..

Dec. 24 1864

We only have one shelf in the house, and that is where Old Nikolai chooses to keep his wealth. It is in his room. God only knows what would happen if I entered. But what could I have done? I needed the money.
Pushing aside all moral compunctions, I snuck into the room. Luckily for me, Old Nikolai stumbled into bed as soon as he came home last night. Even so, I waited until two in the morning, just to make sure. I did not want him to wake while I was sneaking about.
The room was completely dark, but I could make out the shapes of the bed and the shelf. I didn’t know how I was going to reach the top, for I am pathetically short. That also means I am light, so I was able to climb the shelf as if they were steps. I did that often as a child to escape him.
It wobbled as I slowly stepped from shelf to shelf, gripping the sides. The dark didn’t help. I was unaware I had reached the top until my head brushed the roof. I felt along the shelf until my hands brushed a clay pot. I grabbed it in one hand, still clinging tightly to the woodwork with the other one.
It wasn’t enough to hold me. The entire shelf wobbled forward, and I lost my grip. Clutching the pot to my chest, I bit my lip so I would not cry out. I hit the ground with a loud thump. Stars seemed to dance in front of my eyes, but I did not move. Old Nikolai’s snoring continued, unbroken. Just as I began to breathe again, the wobbling shelf began to topple. I barely had time to slip under the bed before it hit the floor with a mighty crash.
The bed creaked as the old man sat up suddenly.
“Who’s there?” He practically screamed the words. I did not answer. I was not even breathing.
I saw his feet hit the floor. They shuffled over to the fallen shelf. He swore. Then, at the top of his voice, he called my name.
“Fyodor Nikolayevich, come here!”
 
Again, I said nothing. I heard the thump of his cane as he attempted to labor over the fallen shelf to get to the door. I guessed he would head to my room. And what if he didn’t find me there?
Then came to me the most brilliant and foolish plan I’d ever dreamed up. I waited until he was no longer in the room. I scooted out from under the bed, wrenched open the window, and practically threw myself out. The jar broke on impact. I left the pieces, but swiftly gathered up the bills and stuffed them into my pocket.
I snuck around to my own window, which has been broken for years, and climbed through. I had just enough time to lie down in the bed and pretend to be asleep before Old Nikolai came into the room.
“Fyodor Nikolayevich!” He limped over to me and held a candle to my face. I slowly opened my eyes.
“Yes, father?”
“Do not tell me you didn’t hear that crash.”
“What crash?” I threw aside the covers, “Did somebody break in?”
I stepped to the floor and followed him into his room. He showed me the shelf. I examined it.
“Look,” I said, pointing, “Your window is open. Maybe somebody came through there…” It was a weak excuse, and I could not meet his eye.
“You are lying to me!” Without warning, he swung his can and hit me squarely in the cheek. It took all my willpower not to cry out, and every ounce of my strength to hold the tears back. I was lying to him. How could I lie to my own father?
But I thought of Gregory, and my promise to help him.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I mumbled.
“Liar!” He swung the cane again, but I was ready for him this time. I caught the cane as he swung and wrenched it from his grip. He was lost without it. He wobbled like the shelf had. I hardly knew what I was doing, but I swung the can and hit him squarely over the head. He dropped down as if dead.
But he was not dead, I was sure of that. He was only unconscious. I am thankful he is alive. How could I kill my own father? Although I have no warm feelings for him, it would be a crime.
I heaved the old man onto his bed and dropped the cane on the floor. I did not worry about him. He’d find his cane later. I also left him about half his money, 50 rubles. I could not bear to leave him with nothing.
I took nothing else, but left the house and locked the door behind me. I have no intentions of ever going back.
 
Sorry for the short updates..

Sezja followed me. Even a dog knew it was not safe to be left in my father’s house.

The sun wasn’t up yet as I headed for the cemetery. I jumped over the fence anyway, and my little dog squeezed underneath. Together, we wove in and out of the gravestones. I read off the names and dates aloud. Will someone do the same for me one day?
That is where I am now, jotting down my thoughts in the journal I always keep in my pocket. I wonder what I shall do now? Stay here? I cannot do that, I’ll freeze to death. But I cannot go home, either. The sun is coming up, and here comes Gregory, up the hill. I will record the happenings of today later.

And now later has come. I’ve eaten my first good meal in what seems like years, and I look forward to the prospect of sleeping without fear of being woken up by Old Nikolai.
It was indeed Gregory that I saw coming up the little hill to the cemetery.
“You came back!” He looked at me as if he were surprised I’d kept my word.
“Of course.” I drew the money out of my pocket and handed it to him. He took it and counted quickly.
“Sir,” he looked up sharply, “There are fifty rubles here! That’s more than enough.”
“You needed it more than we did.” I felt a twinge of guilt insinuating that the money was mine, but I tried to ignore it. The little fellow looked from the money to me as if he were going to cry.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and then took off down the hill. He stopped about halfway down and turned to look back at me. He walked back up slowly.
“Sir,” he began.
“Don’t call me sir.” I couldn’t help interrupting him, “It makes me feel old. My name is Fyodor.”
“But you are an adult. It would be impolite to-”
“Please.”
“All right then, Fyodor.” He shuddered slightly, “Do you want to come with me? I think my family would very much like to meet you, especially after what you did for me.” He grabbed my hand and tried to tug me to my feet.
I had nothing to do but follow. I did not want to say here all day, even though the prospect of meeting his family unsettled me. How could I face them with the stolen money? I felt as if I’d had some bad meat. But I could not disappoint this boy.
“I’ll go,” I said, standing up. He grinned and led me away at a full run.
 
Yay Fyodor! He finally stood up for himself, and I can't believe he has the courage to run away. Although I think he feels a lot more guilty than he's admitting.

Great story, Spanish. Post more soon! :)
 
It seemed to take him no time to reach the shoemaker’s shop. We searched through the little store for nearly an hour, trying to decide between a red pair and a black.
“Mama would look good in these,” Gregory pointed to the black, “but red is a prettier color. What do you think, Mr. Fyodor?”
He finally decided on the black. He looked particularly delighted when he pulled out a few bills to pay for them.
“I feel wealthy,” he said to me as we began to walk back. “I’ve never had this much in one place before. How did you get so rich?” I did not answer. I was not altogether sure how Old Nikolai came by his money. Most likely it was from cheating at cards. I could not tell Gregory this, but I could not tell him the truth, either. What would he say if he knew? I did not answer, and he did not press the matter.
“Here we are!” we’d arrived in front of tiny thatched house. He didn’t even need to open the door: it was blown open with a gust of wind. I hesitated on the threshold. Could I really enter a stranger’s house?
“Come along, Mr. Fyodor,” He pulled me over the doorstep.
The room I stepped into made my own house seem like a mansion. The room was taken up mainly by large rusty oven against the back wall. A skinny girl was dropping ingredients in and stirring, mumbling to herself. Various dried vegetables and cooking equipment hung from the ceiling. A girl who looked about six was playing with a wailing baby under a rough wooden table in the middle of the room.
“Shhh, Alyosha.” She bounced him on her knee, “Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Want Mama!” the child struggled to get away. The little girl was about to say something, but then she saw me. She let out a little cry of terror. Half dragging the baby, she crawled over to tug at the girl’s skirt.
“Not now Katya.”
“But, Tanya, there is a man in here!” Tanya stopped stirring and turned around abruptly, still clutching the dripping ladle.
“About time you were back, Gregory,” she snapped, “Go wash, it’s almost suppertime.” Then she turned her attention to me, “I do not know who you are or what you are doing with my brother. But I assure you, if you mean any harm-” She began to roll up her sleeves. A pang of nervousness swept through me. She was at least six inches taller than I.
“He’s a good man, Tanya,” said Gregory, who had not gone to wash up as he had been told.
“Man? He does not look a day older than sixteen.”
“I’m nineteen.” I attempted a glare, but I’m sure it looked rather silly.
“If you say so.” She snapped around and began to stir furiously.
“She’s put out because you’re a year older,” Gregory whispered to me. He tugged me all the way into the house and attempted to shut the door behind us. It blew open again. He tried again, but when it wouldn’t latch, he left it.
“Why is he here, Gregory?” Tanya asked without turning around.
“He has done us a favor. He needs to see Mama.”
“What? I never said that.” I did not have the right to see the sick woman.
“This…..man has nothing to do with Mama. How can he help her?” Gregory explained quickly about the money and the shoes.
“He what?” She whirled around again, her eyes boring holes into me. There was a moment of tense silence, during which I didn’t even breathe. It was broken at last by a squeal from Alyosha.
“And there is money left over. Look!” he pulled the remaining bills out of his pocket and pressed them into her hand. She coldly handed them back to him.
“What do we want of a stranger’s money? Who knows what he wants in return.” She turned back to her cooking and stirred with intense vigor, refusing to answer to anything Gregory tried to say.
“Come on.” He pulled me over to a closed door, the only other room in the house. He knocked softly.
“Enter.” The voice would have been commanding had it not sounded so weak, it would have been frightening. Gregory pushed the door open. Clutching the shoes in one hand, he tip-toed into the room.
There was a bed in the middle of the room. In it was a very pale woman who seemed to be barely breathing. In a chair next to her sat a man who I judged to be the father. He was staring at the woman as if he might cry, but the expression vanished as Gregory came into the room.
“Mama… I mean…Princess.” The boy shuffled forward to the bed, “I brought you your shoes so you can go dancing…” His voice trailed off and became nothing. He pulled back the bottom of the sheet and placed them on her feet.
“Thank you, lad.” She attempted to hold out her hand to him, but all it did was twitch. Gregory gently picked up the hand and brought it to his lips. His entire body seemed to be quivering with repressed sobs. Tears rose to my eyes as I watched this, and I leaned against the door frame and cried silently.
All this time, the father said nothing. He watched this scene intently, but said nothing to the boy. He did not seem to notice that I was there. Gregory passed him on his way out, but still they said nothing to each other.
By the time he lead me by the hand out of the room, I had gained control of my emotions.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?” he asked me, “I’m sure Papa won’t mind.”
And he didn’t. In fact, he acted as if it were perfectly normal to have an orge-faced, scrawny boy sitting at his kitchen table. Perhaps Gregory often brought in friends. We ate in silence. I tried to avoid their eyes. Each time I looked at them, guilt surged through me. I was eating their food when they were poor. I offered them stolen money. I cleaned the bowl, but refused when Tanya offered me more in such a tone that I did not dare accept. When we had eaten and the bowls were cleared away, the father spoke to me at last.
“What is your name, lad?”
“Fyodor Nikolayevich Kolsov.”
“You mean the drunkard’s son?” Tanya spat the words. Her father silenced her with a look.
“Do you need a place to spend the night?” He continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all, “I can offer you nothing but a floor, but it may be your best option. It is the least I can do for your kindness.” Tanya glared at him, but didn’t dare protest.
“Thank you, sir. I hate to infringe on your hospitality, but it is impossible for me to return home tonight.”
And so I will sleep in the furthest corner of the main room. The dirt floor is cold and the door keeps blowing open, but I am far safer and warmer here than I am at home. The soft breathing of the family from their corner seems to me a peaceful sound. I wish I could stay here forever.
 
Yes, your unpredictability is good. Not only does it make your own stories more intriguing when you spring things on us like a thief giving back half the loot even as he makes his getaway; the effect also spreads out to make _other_ stories less predictable. ("Span-Inq had King Kong step on the little bunny rabbits in her story, so I can't just take for granted the safety of the perky squirrels in this other person's story.")
 
Dec. 25, 1864

I have just had a terrible thought. I have left Sezja behind in the graveyard. I suppose I must have been to caught up in following Gregory that I’d forgotten my dog. I fear that he has headed back to Old Nikolai’s house. Who knows what would happen to him there? I must go back and find him. I think I can slip out without anyone noticing. Perhaps I shall return, but most likely I will not. I cannot live off their hospitality when they have nothing.


***
I have been lying on the floor for I don’t know how long. I don’t know the date or the time. I am only writing this to remind myself I am alive. As long as I feel the aching all over my body, I know I exist. But for many days there was no pain. I was floating in unawareness.
I can only see out of my left eye, and my hand quivers so much I can barely hold this pencil. I dare not move. If I do, he’ll be upon me again. I do not want to be hit again. But this time, I deserved it. I did steal from him, and I had no right to do that. So I did not fight him. I let him hit me. I tried to scream out apologies, but they had no effect on him, and he continued to hit me until I passed out. And for days I’ve been here, not moving and hardly thinking.
I was woken by something soft against my cheek. Sezja had come here after all. He licked my face, yelping quietly. I am glad he’s here. He is a comfort to me, snuggling close and gently licking my face. Maybe I will be able to sit up soon.
Tears fill my eyes, and fall with burning pain. I should not feel so sorry for myself. It was only a deserved punishment. But, what I would give for a gentle father who wouldn’t punish me within an inch of my life. I cannot feel sorry for my action. I only feel guilt, but I am not sorry I took the money. I see the dying woman in my head and find that repentance is impossible.
I can write no more. It hurts too much. I hope I live. I want to fix Gregory’s broken door. That is how I will hold on to life. The door needs fixing, and I want to do it. But now I will sleep a bit more.
 
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