[ She leaves, and Raskolnikov is about to be quite upset, but then she returns with a glass of water. Well. He’d half expected her not to come back. He’s about to reach out clumsily for the water, the shaking in his hands be damned, when she puts down the glass and splashes water on himself. He doesn’t have it in him to protest, not when he’s tired and thirsty and everything really does hurt and his brain feels as though it’s about to leak out of his ears, but he gives the glass a doleful stare nonetheless.
And then she leaves again. Always coming and going, he thinks, rather mournfully. But there isn’t anything to do except wait, so he forces his hand to close around the glass of water and brings it to his mouth. He manages to take a sip without spilling too much, which is something of a victory, and then he sets the glass down (gently, unlike Agathe!) and stares up at the ceiling.
God in heaven, he hurts all over, a bone-deep ache, as though he’d been tensing every muscle in his body for hours. Maybe he had been. He very carefully doesn’t think about Norman, about the hours of torment, of torture, of pleading to be let go, to be given an explanation, to just be allowed to sleep. ]
no subject
And then she leaves again. Always coming and going, he thinks, rather mournfully. But there isn’t anything to do except wait, so he forces his hand to close around the glass of water and brings it to his mouth. He manages to take a sip without spilling too much, which is something of a victory, and then he sets the glass down (gently, unlike Agathe!) and stares up at the ceiling.
God in heaven, he hurts all over, a bone-deep ache, as though he’d been tensing every muscle in his body for hours. Maybe he had been. He very carefully doesn’t think about Norman, about the hours of torment, of torture, of pleading to be let go, to be given an explanation, to just be allowed to sleep. ]