A/N: Rodya's POV. Whenever it is stream of consciousness, it will be Rodya's POV. The stream of consciousness should be somewhat like James Joyce's style... I don't know why I'm introducing that into the mix, but ok. The parentheses are things Rodya is thinking when he is speaking to someone. If this is too confusing a narrative, I'll change this so it's not stream of consciousness anymore.

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Ugh... where am I?

Gah! My head! I feel like I've been hit by a train!

Ah! Oh, goodness. There's a girl here. I almost thought I'd have a heart attack. I didn't notice her before. I think she's telling me to lie down... I can't understand what she's saying...

Oh. No wonder. She's speaking French.

French? What on earth is she doing in Germany?

Let me get a good look at her... oh, there's a man here, as well. Hmm... the man is somewhat fashionably dressed, with a light mustache, and a worried face. He looks like he might have been at sea for some time, and recently. I guess I can assume by the way the girl clings to him that he is her husband.

The girl is pretty, her blonde hair falls like silk. Yet, she looks as though... oh, God... how horrible! It looks as though she's been aged, somehow, before her time. There are gray circles around her eyes. Her look is weary and full of death. It's horrible... I can't look in her eyes. They're vacuous, black holes. Anything but her eyes.

Oh, God, is this the beginning of my punishment?

Have they any children? ...No, I don't think so. They look rather young, and the way she clings to him suggests that it is a new love. These two were married not long ago.

And they're speaking French. Perhaps, then, this is a part of their honeymoon. I don't think either can speak a word of German.

And I can't speak a word of French.

This is almost as bad as going to France itself. But at least I know I'm free, and under good care...

Ah! How irrationally I acted! Now that I see my coat in broad daylight, there are only spots of blood. It wasn't covered; it was only spattered with the blood from the axe I so foolishly dropped in the blood. Now I have no hope of returning to Russia, the way I acted... I will be placed under a lot of suspicion for having departed...unless I come back with a veritable excuse, of course. What alibi have I to use?

Someone knocks at the door. Why do I feel it is Razumikhin? Oh, dear God, anyone but him...

Oh. It is only a maid. A stout one, but has the look of a German. Perhaps—

--Hello, sir.

Hello.

--What is your name?

Raskolnikov. (I feel like my lungs are about to explode from all this infernal coughing!)

--Where from Russia are you from?

H-How do you know I am from Russia?

--You've been ranting and raving in Russian for the past three days! Something about your coat and your shoes, and someone named Lizaveta... you were delirious, Raskolnikov. The doctor has been here, and he's coming back in a little while. I see you've finally recovered your senses. You nearly frightened the poor couple half to death with your delirious rants.

(What a stroke of luck! They think I was mad!)

--But tell me, Raskolnikov—

You may call me Rodya.

--Fine, Rodya—where from Russia are you? Do you have any relatives there?

I'm from St. Petersburg, but there is no one you should send a letter to there.

--Ah. Why not?

My family lives elsewhere in Russia, and I prefer not to let them know where I am and worry.

--Well, any friends?

Only one, Razumikhin, but I would prefer him not knowing my whereabouts.

--Well, if you insist.

Now she's speaking in French to the frightened looking couple. They keep glancing over to me in a light horror. I avoid the girl's eyes. They are too piercing, too life-stealing... they frighten me. It is almost as though someone had stolen her soul. The thought sends electrifying chills down my spine. What a horrible feeling...

What's this? A vision of red... so much red... and an axe falling painfully slow...

My God. I'm a murderer. I recall now. Oh, curse this cold shiver, this cold sweat! Curse this coughing! The world is spinning—

--Rest, Rodya. The doctor will be here soon. Would you like some tea?

(Oh, the maid is speaking to me again.) Uh, yes, fine. Any kind will do...oh, wait!

--Yes?

Who is this couple?

--Oh. The man is the Viscount Raoul de Chagny, and the girl is his husband, Christine. Do you remember collapsing on my doorstep?

No.

--Oh, dear. Well, I'll tell you the entire story once you're well again. These are the ones that took you in and paid for the doctor.

Oh. How kind of them. Tell them that they have my gratitude... but I am poor, and I have no way to repay them--

--Don't worry about it, Rodya. Just rest. I'll bring you some tea.

That little curtsy of hers was almost hilarious. Suddenly, everything seems hilarious now, except for that deathly stare from the girl. My God, what happened to that poor girl—Christine? I am almost afraid to ask. Her husband—Raoul—is holding her tightly, as though he's trying to get rid of it. I think it frightens him, too. He looks ready to either curse the sky, spit on the ground, or burst into bitter tears. I wonder how this couple ended up like this, and so early on in their marriage! Perhaps someone abused her?

But how can abuse steal away her soul?

Ugh. Perhaps I don't want to know. I must stop thinking about it. I need rest.

The red... the vision of red... oh, it's plaguing me. It won't go away...

How can I rest, when I have murdered?

Hush up about that. No one here knows that.

Oh, no, my fever is running up. I can feel it. I must take off my coat. Ah, I am too weak.

Oh, dear God. The world is whirling into blackness once again.