Mikhailovich woke up heavy-headed and half-dreaming, light assaulting his eyelids. After some minutes of torment, he finally opened opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Someone had left the curtains open. A stream of light broke through and hit the bed squarely on his face, rousing him from slumber. And now he was half-awake and suffering a headache, irreconcilability torn from the comfort of dreams. He traced the faded cracks of plaster on the ceiling for some time, his eyes following the little white hills and rivulets. His sleepy headache persisted. He squeezed part of the blanket in his fist. Who left the curtain open? It was probably Olga. How many times had he told that girl not to leave the curtains open? He didn't care if it "freshened the room", her job was to clean and make food. Nothing more, nothing less. And now his sleep was disrupted and he would likely be hounded by the sleep-starved headache all day. How was he to get anything done today? How was he to read, to write? These things could only be done in the best state of mind, and God knew that he had spent pitifully little time doing anything productive over the past few days already... No, it must have been weeks? The days flew by rather fast in the summer flat, and he came to the city first in— He heard a knock on the door. Olga came in and placed a tray on the table. She looked at him with a tender frown. "I've brought you your noon tea, Mikhailovich," she said softly. "Noon?" He said, rubbing his face with a pillow. "Yes, you told me to make sure you were awake at this time." Mikhailovich grumbled. "Did you open the curtains?" "Oh, dear," she said. "They're hardly open at all." He could feel the light bathe the room. Removing the pillow, he stared in muted anger as she opened up the curtains fully. He wanted to snap out, to berate her, but he just didn't have the will to do it. She clasped her hands and looked at him with her signature, old, tender frown. He almost felt it condescending—was it of pity, of compassion? No, she was just doing her job. "Your father has sent your monthly allowance from the estate. Did you reply to his letter last week?" A pang of anxiety shot through him. "Last week?" He could've sworn that he received it just a few days ago, but he avoided thinking of it. He never knew just how to reply, even to his father. "Yes, of course, I'll get to it right away." "Of course. What would you like to eat?" He asked her to make some buttered toast with caviar. After she left downstairs, he stopped to think, staring at the ceiling once more. He had a lot to do today. Things that he was supposed to do a week ago. But the days kept slipping through his fingers, and so did the time to be engaged in intellectual pursuits. Today he resolved to catch the day in his grip, and spend some time writing. First, he needed to finish that reply to his father. [i]Dear father, [/i] he imagined the letter would start... something something, [i]I have unfortunately not had the time to visit Fedya. I have spent my time studying matters of philosophy[/i]—no, no, that didn't sound right. And it should be longer. Letters couldn't be too short. And should he really write 'dear father'? It sounded too cold. But anything else sounded too formal. It would work itself out when he actually wrote it, he resolved. He hadn't even had breakfast yet. He finally rose from his bed and stretched when Olga brought the sandwiches. Actually, they weren't sandwiches because there was no bread on the top, just butter and caviar. He stretched and smoothed out the comfy green robe that he wore all night. And the day before. And maybe the day before that; he didn't remember when Olga last washed it. But it was really comfortable, and made of some sort of cozy material from a foreign land. The tea was already half-cold by the time he drank it, and a little too bitter. But he did not have the effort to complain about it. After finishing the breakfast—no, technically lunch—he sunk down in his chair lazily. Did it count as lunch if it was his first meal of the day? He glanced at the clock. It was half past one. [i]Half past one![/i] How time flew! And he hadn't even [i]done anything[/i] yet. He made a mental note to get to sleep sooner that night, or the next day would continue to feel mercilessly short. Time always seemed to pass faster during the night. And during the mornings, too. But morning was technically over. In any case, time was his enemy. After ruminating on his torment, he moved to his desk. An assortment of half-read books, loose pages and cracked quills littered the wooden workspace. He quickly threw the quills into a pile and crumpled all the loose pages into a single ball, pushing it into a corner alongside some other trash and crumbs. He would clean it later, right now he had to write. He took out a piece of paper and dipped a quill in ink. [i]Dear father,[/i] he wrote. No, no, no, he decided he didn't want to start it that way. He crumpled the paper up. But how would he start it? He brushed the quill on his chin, feeling the pricks of hair. He reminded himself that he needed to shave later. Maybe it would help if he looked at some old letters. Or maybe even the letter that his father sent him! That was a good idea. He glanced around the desk. He rose and looked at the bookshelf, looking through some old papers he left lying around and lists he left in half-read books as bookmarks. Not there. It wasn't under the desk either, or on the table. He uncrumpled some old sheets in the trash pile and cringed at the discarded drafts. He considered calling Olga in, but he didn't want to bother her too much. He sat down at the table and stared at the wooden floorboards. Where could that letter possibly have gone? He was so busy ignoring it that he didn't even know where he put it. He could only conclude that the letter had been lost to the void. He rubbed the stubble on his chin and thought, drafting the letter in his mind. A greeting, something something... Eventually Olga came in to the room and asked if he would like something to eat. "No, I'm not hungry. Didn't I just eat?" He paused, immediately feeling sorry for snapping at her. How long ago [i]did[/i] he eat, exactly? A chord of terror struck his body. "No, nevermind, don't answer that. No, thank you, I mean." She nodded and left. He couldn't bear to look at the clock. How much time had he already wasted? He didn't even want to know. But—time always flew faster when he wasn't paying attention. If he kept an eye on the clock, time would surely slow its advance. He moved back to the desk. He took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. He needed to stop worrying about time, about the lost letter, about anything. He needed to clear his mind before getting to work. A loud knock on the door disturbed his meditation. As he turned around, two figures entered the room. "Misha!" said his old friend Fyodor Ilyich. "What have you been doing all this time?" Fyodor examined the messy room. "It's a little stuffy in here, don't you think?" The man behind him nodded in agreement. "Oh, this is Andrei Romanovich. You met when I visited you here a month ago, I think. Do you remember?" "Er, yes, I believe so." Mikhailovich stood up and shook hands with Andrei. Fyodor, however, opted for a strangle-like hug. "Your servant girl told me you've been decaying here all month. She's a little concerned, you know. And now I am too. It's time to get you out of here. How do you feel about going to a ball?" "Uh... A ball?" Mikhailovich said with a frown. "What do you mean, whose—what ball?" "Oh, you see, Andrei's cousin has an acquaintance who is intimate with the Tsarevich—" "Not intimate," Andrei corrected. "They've spoken a few times." "Yes, yes," continued Fyodor, "and he happens to know the Count Glukhovsky's daughter, who knows the old Prince Starushkin, who is hosting a ball next week. And so, we're invited." "Well, my cousin's the one invited," Andrei clarified dully. "Technically." "The point is, the whole city will be there. And Andrei's cousin's acquaintance wants to elope with the Count's daughter. We're to meet him at the club soon, to plan the whole thing." Mikhailovich felt vines of anxiety clawing his inner being already. "That's nice," he murmured. "So, old friend, will you come? We haven't really spoken for so long, and I had hoped you'd be participating in the affairs of the city once you'd appeared here. Why else would someone rent a cramped little flat for the summer?" Fyodor looked at him expectantly. Mikhailovich didn't know how to say no. Every bit of his essence screamed at him in revulsion to the idea. It was just too much effort. And he had things to do, of course. "I don't think so, sorry," he said finally. Andrei shrugged and turned to leave. "Oh, come on," said Fyodor. "Why are you rotting in this squalid flat? Don't lie to me and say you're busy, because you're not, you layabout. I apologize, Mikhail Mikhailovich, but harsh words are necessary." Mikhailovich didn't know what to say. A cauldron of anxiety and stubbornness churned in his stomach, and he refused to budge from his chair, retreating into the realm of rumination. Fyodor sighed. "Andrei and I will loiter outside for a few minutes and have a smoke. I hope you'll join us." Mikhailovich listened to the sound of boots stomping down the stairs. He hardly realized Olga came into the room, twiddling her hands with that signature, pitying expression. "Yes?" He said, looking up at her dully. "I think you should join your friends on this excursion, Mikhail. It would be good for your health to get some air. And I'll have the whole flat cleaned for you when you get back." "They're not my friends," muttered Mikhailovich. "And don't call me Mikhail—that's my father's name." But he had to admit that getting some air sounded good, and he wouldn't mind having some food and drink to dine out. And maybe this time is exactly what he needed to inspire him to write that letter. He turned the idea over in his mind some more, indecisive. Finally, he rose, suppressing any more thought on the matter. "Fine," he said with a gargantuan sigh, "I shall go." He fetched something acceptable out of the wardrobe and shooed Olga off. He wasn't a child—he could put his clothes on himself. He had no taste for fashion, though, so he put on black clothes and a frazzled, old, unbuttoned frock coat with a stale green color. He ran his hand through his bushy hair and rushed downstairs. Andrei and Fyodor were getting into the carriage. "Fedya!" He ran to join them. "See, I told you he'd reconsider!" Fyodor poked Andrei. "Very good, now we can have an uncomfortable ride," muttered Andrei as Mikhailovich squeezed into the carriage. "Sorry, Misha, I wasn't thinking when I took this cab." It didn't take them long to arrive at the club, Mikhailovich still wondering whether it was a good idea to come through the whole ride. He absentmindedly followed the pair through the anteroom and into the dining room, avoiding the greetings that Fyodor delivered to numerous gentlemen. The table was already set—vodka, veal, selyodka and more. Mikhailovich hurriedly greeted the group, being introduced to Andrei's cousin Ilya Piavkov, his acquaintance and the man of honor Aleksandr Tarakanov, and his comrades: the brothers Dmitriy Dvoykin and Fyodor Vladimirovich Dvoykin. Mikhailovich hardly listened to their conversation as he enjoyed the food. The selyodka, drenched in onions, was his absolute favorite and it was prepared ideally. He drank with every toast silently, nodding along with "to our good friend Aleksandr!" and to "our mutual health!". Soon, he felt that familiar wave of fuzzy warmth wash over him, and a smile involuntarily slid unto his face. The bread was good, the caviar was good, the fish was good, and the company was good, even if he didn't give any cares about the topic of conversation. He slid back in his seat, content. "Oy, [i]parenh,[/i]" said someone, pouring him another shot. "Didn't you hear? A toast! [i]Za lubov![/i]" But the joviality suddenly stopped. Mikhailovich blinked, and saw that the butler had said something to the party. "The Count's son is [i]here?[/i] Why?" asked Fedya Ilyich. Before the butler could reply, an elegantly dressed figure emerged behind him. Standing upright and proud and holding a cane as if it was the Tsar's scepter, the young Count Glukhovsky delivered a stiff bow. "May I introduce Count Pyotr Kirillovich Glukhovsky," delivered the Butler courteously. Mikhailovich snorted. Something irked him about people who took themselves far too seriously. "Petya," said Aleksandr with an uneasy smile. "What has brought you to our gathering?" "Dispense with the pleasantries," replied Glukhovsky icily, "You will refer to me as Count Glukhovsky, and nothing less. This farce is over. Katerina confessed all your plans." A silence washed over the group. Even drunk, the consequences of the elopement's reveal seemed to strike pause into all of them. Careless and annoyed with the junior Count's arrogance, Mikhailovich raised his glass, still full, and announced, "a toast to love!" He downed it without pausing for the others. "Silence, you drunk fool!" Glukhovsky raised a gloved finger, twitching in anger. "This is a serious matter." Mikhailovich stood drunkenly, nearly losing his footing. For once, words flowed from his mouth without a second thought. "Stop waving that cane around, you—you pretender. You're not your father, 'Count'... You're a pretender, to... to nothing but the kingdom of fools." The seated group found the display rather amusing, and a wave of chortles followed. Mikhailovich fell back into his seat, proud of his dumb joke, and raised his glass weakly. But before he could try to sip from the empty glass, he felt something hit his face. Glukhovsky's face was bathed in red fury, and he had discarded one of his gloves at Mikhailovich. "You drunk, you scoundrel! I challenge you." Mikhailovich laughed. "If you say so." Glukhovsky stomped off without another word. Silence reigned the room once more, and it took Mikhailovich a few moments to understand the events that transpired. It all blurred from there. "Good luck. For my sake, I hope you kill him," was all that Aleksandr had to offer. He left with the two brothers, who echoed his sentiment, and the party disbanded. Fedya Ilyich immediately volunteered to be one of the seconds, and Andrei accepted the role alongside him. Mikhailovich hastily agreed to "pistols at dawn". The carriage ride was nearly wordless. "Get some sleep," Fedya advised him as he stepped out. "Glukhovsky is betting on you still being intoxicated in the sunrise. He acts so seriously, but he's awful scared, I bet." And sleep Mikhailovich did. It was what he did best, after all. It was still dark outside when he awoke. He had a pounding headache, and the gravity of everything that happened that day washed over him with a torrent of anxiety. Lighting a lamp, he sat down at the table and downed several glasses of water. He didn't think, just listened to the pounding of his heart as he quenched his headache. He stared at the glint of light on the empty glass, savoring the moment of idleness that was unlike every other. He took in the dark that bathed the windows and the flat, and listened to his breath. For a moment, he took in the stillness, the idleness, that lack of fervor that had defined his entire life. And, having seen it in all its beauty, he decided it wasn't enough. Why had he wasted a month decaying in this city? No—why had he wasted so much of his life until this point? When the sun rose, his life could be extinguished, snuffed out, shattered into pieces with such fragility that one could hardly believe he had it in the first place. It was scary. It was sad. He did not want to go like that. But at the same time, he didn't want to go on [i]like this[/i]. If he died today, he never would have lived at all. He sat at the desk, facing the window. The first inklings of light would soon blossom from the horizon, and with that, his life would finally start. He wrote. The letter started with the words, [i]My dear father, [/i] not too formal, not too sweet. He told him why he left for the city and what he had been studying. He told him of his encounter with the Count and the duel he was to have. He told him he regretted leaving, and hoped to return soon. He left the letter for Olga to send and went outside. The air felt wonderfully crisp and rejuvenating, and he spent an untold amount of time merely staring at the horizon and breathing, no thoughts interfering. Finally, his seconds arrived and handed him a couple pistols that Andrei found. Fedya, doing his duty as a second, raised the idea of submitting to Glukhovsky and so on, but they proceeded to the site of the duel anyway, no mind paid to the idea. A doctor and Glukhovsky's seconds had already arrived. He was not surprised to hear that Glukhovsky was the one who hired him. The site of the duel was a broad path in a clearing of thin trees, serenaded by the sound of a creek flowing nearby. The seconds met, and Mikhailovich sat on a nearby stump and traced his fingers over the pistol he held. The pang of anxiety—the pressure, the muted headache—it returned to taunt him, but he listened to the sound of the creek and conquered it. He imagined the creek, the foamy water lapping over the pebbles... and the image of the duel that would take place nearby found its way in. For a second, he tasted the bitter bullet of death, the image of him lying in a puddle of blood for no reason other than some petty slight on some fussy noble's honor. He had only just now started living, and he would lose it all like that? It was unfair. It was foolish. It was cruel, and it made no sense. He balled his hands into a fist and drove it into the bark of the stump. The stupidity of the entire matter inflamed him. But here he was. He heard some voices, and saw that Glukhovsky had arrived. He stood up and walked to the middle of the path. He hardly paid attention to what came next. Glukhovsky's servant made some announcement—the parties had refused reconciliation and so on and so on—and he shrugged in agreement to standing twenty paces apart from his adversary. He rubbed his hand against the pistol's grip, feeling the sweat drenching his palm. His heart clamored, and no amount of deep breaths could stop it. He may have been an atheist—but in that moment he begged God to let him live. If he died today, he would never get the chance... [i]Raz, dva—[/i] A crackle, a flash, a whiff of gunpowder and a rush of cold air And then Bitter. It all tasted—felt, incredibly bitter. It felt so bitter that he drowned it, so bitter and so black and so hot like a cup of tea that had steeped for far too long, and he was drowning in the cup, a cup of the darkest, most bitter tea, black as pitch...