ex nihilo | fyodor dostoyevsky x reader

ᴅᴇʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ

Delusion

ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ᴄʀᴜᴇʟ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴅᴇʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴡᴀꜱ ʀɪɢʜᴛ: ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴇʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ʜᴏʀʀɪᴅ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ʟᴀɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀʟʟᴀᴄʏ, ɪɴ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴀɴᴛ.

. . .

And so life continued. A gradation of your well-being ensued. 

It wasn't steep at all, no. The slope of your state was almost nonexistent.

With nothing else to do throughout the day, you focused yourself on reading books and watching series. The bookshelf in Fyodor's office, just like the bookstore, held many classics, so you kindly asked him to borrow them. He agreed, voice devoid of any interest.

And so you were presented with the end of your boredom, or at least, some sort of hindering.

You did not crave human contact, not at all. You would meet each and every one of the members from time to time, be it for some assignment or simply by stumbling upon them. As it happened, it was Fyodor whose presence was the most common in your everyday life.

He'd tackle you on the spot with ever fresh excuses for conversing.

His company was pleasant to you, per se. You loved talking to him, and he liked it too. Not even once would he pass up on the opportunity to ask you something, or tell you some fact, inform you of whatever. Be it out of sheer courtesy, he still went the trouble to waste his time to amuse you. You appreciated it.

You had Ivan in the house, but you'd never pick him as a conversation buddy. Your relationship did improve, luckily, but you still couldn't get over the few incidents from the past. They were buried deep down in your memory, their roots couldn't get plucked out - and the pristine resentment would resurface whenever you saw the servant.

You'd try to strike up a discussion, but his responses would always be short, disinterested. You simply weren't Fyodor, and Fyodor was all he worried about.

But oh, he was always eager to talk about Fyodor! Whenever you checked on his condition, the servant would start rambling on and on, and you would soon have to excuse yourself.

On the other hand, you had Fyodor, a man of striking ideas and ever sharp tongue. Almost as if he was waiting for you to appear, he would direct a compelling topic at you. There was one conversation that remained embedded in your memory, or, rather, a portion of it. It started off as something completely unrelated, yet ended up as a sorrowful realization.

"Chernobyl? Brilliant show. It's a pleasant surprise, considering it came from an American company," he commented.

"You once again have that negative connotation while talking about America... why is that so?"

He rubbed his hands together - in retrospective, you perceived that as an open display of satisfaction. "I can't generalize, yet the most of their... products, ideals, trends, they're shallow, superficial. Shortlasting for sure. And by this, I don't criticize America, but modern, globalist culture worldwide - America is simply one of its leaders. I could go on for hours about it, but I'll conclude my talk with open disgust I feel towards what they've done to key aspects of life. To name one of them, perhaps the most important one, love."

"Americans have ruined love. That's a likely scenario."

"Isn't it?" He enjoyed the fact you agreed. "Love nowadays is a nickname for all sorts of beneficial relationships people choose to enter. Be it to fuel their ego, to show off, to get rich. Be it for sex! And all of them are so quick to claim they're head over heels for each other, and all of them make sure to make it known in the public that they are in love. And that their love is absolute. Perfect. When in reality, they abuse each other once the door of their home is closed, and they agree to call it love. Then the wind blows in another direction, and they'll abandon their destined one. They'll cheat, they'll chase their passions, they'll do what they want, because that's the modern doctrine. Be yourself, do what makes you feel good! Their love is disgusting, nonexistent, but the important thing is, that they do what they want. Oh, God's greatest gift is decimated to a farce."