Part 1 · Chapter 7

The door cracked open again, and those sharp, suspicious eyes peeked out from the dark. Then Raskolnikov totally blanked and almost messed everything up.

Worried the old lady would freak out being alone, and not expecting her to trust him, he yanked the door towards himself to stop her from shutting it. She didn’t pull it back, but didn’t let go of the handle either, so he almost dragged her out onto the stairs.

Seeing she was blocking the doorway, he just pushed past her. She jumped back, like she was about to say something, but couldnn't get the words out, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Hey, Alyona Ivanovna," he started, trying to sound chill, but his voice cracked and shook.

"I’m here... I brought something... but let’s go inside... into the light..."

And without waiting, he walked right into the room. The old woman chased after him, finally finding her voice.

"What the heck?! Who is it? What do you want?"

"Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov... I brought you that thing I promised the other day..." And he held it out.

The old woman glanced at the thing, then locked eyes with her uninvited guest. She stared intently, meanly, and suspiciously. A minute passed; he even thought he saw a smirk in her eyes, like she already knew everything.

He felt like he was losing it, that he was totally freaked out, that if she kept staring without saying anything for just a little longer, he’s have bolted.

"Why are you looking at me like you don’t even know me?" he snapped, also with a bit of an edge.

"Take it if you want it, or I’m outta here, I’m in a rush."

He hadn’t even thought of saying that, but it just came out. The old woman seemed to snap back to reality, and his confident tone seemed to give her some confidence back.

"But what’s the big deal, my dear sir? What is it?" she asked, looking at the thing.

"That silver cigarette case; I mentioned it last time, remember?"

Then she held out her hand. "But you look so pale, seriously..."

" ...and your hands are shaking too? Did you go swimming, or something?"

"Fever," he answered sharply. "You get pale... when you haven’t eaten anything," he added, struggling to get the words out.

His strength was fading again. But his answer sounded true, and the old woman took the thing.

"What is it?" she asked again, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and weighing the thing in her hand.

"A thing... cigarette case... silver... take a look."

"It doesn’t look like silver somehow... how he wrapped it up!"

Trying to untie the string and turning towards the window, to the light (all her windows were shut, even with the crazy heat), she left him completely for a few seconds, standing with her back to him.

He unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the rope, but didn’t take it out completely, just holding it in his right hand under his coat. His hands were ridiculously weak, he could feel them getting numb and wooden every second. He was afraid he's let the axe slip and fall...

A wave of dizziness hit him.

"But why did he wrap it up like this?" the old woman cried, annoyed, and moved towards him.

He didn’t have a second to lose. He pulled the axe completely out, swung it with both arms, barely thinking, almost mechanically, and with almost no effort, brought the blunt side down on her head. It wasn’t like he was using his own strength.

But as soon as he brought the axe down once, his strength came back to him.

The old woman was, as always, without a hat. Her thin, light hair, streaked with gray, was coated in grease and braided into a long tail, held together by a broken horn comb sticking out on the back of her neck. Because she was so short, the blow landed right on the top of her head.

She cried out, but very quietly, and then suddenly collapsed onto the floor, raising her hands to her head. In one hand, she still clutched "the pledge." He hit her again, and again, with the blunt side of the axe, right in the same spot.

Blood gushed out like it had spilled from an overturned glass, and her body fell back. He stepped back, let the axe drop, and immediately leaned over her face; she was gone. Her eyes seemed to be bulging, her forehead and her whole face were pulled and twisted in a weird spasm.

He dropped the axe on the floor near the body and quickly felt in her pocket (trying to avoid the bloody mess) - the same right-hand pocket where she’s pulled out the key on his last visit. He was totally with it, clear-headed, but his hands were still shaking.

Later, he remembered that he's been super focused and careful, trying not to get blood on himself. He pulled out the keys - they were all together on a steel ring, just like before. He hurried into the bedroom with them. It was a tiny room, practically a shrine of religious icons.

A big bed stood against one wall, super clean and covered with a colorful silk quilt. Against another wall was a chest of drawers. Weirdly, as soon as he started fitting the keys into the chest and heard them jingle, a shiver ran through him. He suddenly felt like giving it all up and leaving.

But that was just for a second; it was too late to turn back. He almost laughed at himself, but then another scary thought popped into his head. He suddenly worried that the old woman might still be alive and might wake up.

Leaving the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, grabbed the axe, and raised it over the old woman again, but didn’t bring it down. There was no doubt - she was dead. Bending down and examining her again closely, he saw clearly that her skull was broken and even crushed on one side.

He was about to touch it with his finger, but pulled his hand back, and it was obvious without that. Meanwhile, there was a huge pool of blood on the floor. Suddenly, he noticed a string around her neck; he tugged on it, but the string was strong and didn’t break, plus it was soaked in blood.

He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but something was holding it and wouldn't let it come out. Frustrated, he raised the axe again to cut the string above the body, but didn’t dare.

With some difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood, after two minutes of hurried effort, he cut the string and pulled it off without touching the body with the axe; he wasn’t wrong - it was a purse.

Attached to the string were two crosses, one made of Cyprus wood and one of copper, and a silver filigree icon, and with them a small, greasy chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring.

The purse was packed full; Raskolnikov shoved it in his pocket without looking at it, tossed the crosses on the old woman’s body, and rushed back into the bedroom, this time taking the axe with him.

He was seriously rushing, grabbed the keys, and started trying them again. But no luck - they didn't fit the locks. It wasn't really that his hands were shaking, but he kept messing up; even when he saw a key wasn't right, he's still trying to shove it in.

Then it hit him - that big key with the deep notches, hanging with the small ones, couldn't possibly belong to the dresser (he's noticed that on his last visit), but to some strongbox, and maybe everything was hidden in there.

He left the dresser and immediately felt under the bed, knowing old ladies usually stash boxes under their beds. And that's exactly what he found - a decent-sized box, at least a yard long, with an arched lid covered in red leather and studded with steel nails.

The notched key fit right away and unlocked it. At the top, under a white sheet, was a red brocade coat lined with hareskin; underneath that, a silk dress, then a shawl, and it seemed like there was nothing else but clothes.

The first thing he did was wipe his blood-splattered hands on the red brocade.

"It’s red, and on red, blood won’t be as noticeable," he thought, then snapped back to reality.

"Good grief, am I losing it?" he thought, terrified.

But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped out from under the fur coat. He quickly flipped everything over. There were tons of gold items among the clothes - probably all pawned, unredeemed, or waiting to be redeemed - bracelets, chains, earrings, pins, and stuff like that.

Some were in cases, others just wrapped in newspaper, folded carefully and tied with tape. Without a second thought, he started filling up the pockets of his pants and overcoat without even looking at or undoing the packages and cases, but he didn't have much time to grab any...

Suddenly, he heard footsteps in the room where the old woman was lying. He froze, totally still. But it was quiet, so it must have been his imagination. Then he heard a faint cry, like someone had let out a low moan. Silence again for a minute or two.

He sat squatting on his heels by the box, holding his breath. Suddenly, he jumped up, grabbed the axe, and bolted out of the bedroom.

In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta, clutching a big bundle in her arms. She was staring, dumbstruck, at her murdered sister, as white as a ghost and seeming too shocked to scream. Seeing him run out of the bedroom, she started trembling all over, like a leaf; a shudder ran down her face.

She lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but still didn’t scream. She slowly backed away from him into the corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but still didn’t make a sound, like she couldn't get enough breath to scream.

He charged at her with the axe; her mouth twitched pitifully, like you see with babies when they start to get scared, staring intently at what’s frightening them and about to scream.

And this poor Lizaveta was so simple and had been so thoroughly crushed and scared that she didn't even raise a hand to protect her face, even though that was the most natural thing to do at that moment, because the axe was raised over her face.

She only held up her empty left hand, but not to her face, slowly holding it out in front of her as if motioning him away. The axe fell with the sharp edge right on her skull and split her entire head open with one blow. She fell heavily to the ground.

Raskolnikov completely lost it, snatched up her bundle, dropped it, and ran into the hallway.

Fear was totally taking over him, especially after that second, completely unexpected murder. He just wanted to bolt from the place as fast as possible.

And if he’d been able to think straight, to really see how messed up his situation was - how hopeless, how disgusting, how ridiculous - if he’d understood how many obstacles and, maybe, even crimes he still had to deal with or commit just to escape and get home, he probably would have just given up and turned himself in.

Not out of fear, but because he was so horrified and disgusted by what he’s done. That feeling of disgust just kept building and getting stronger every minute. There was absolutely no way he’d go near that box or even into the room right then.

But a sort of blankness, almost like he was daydreaming, had started to creep over him. He'd forget himself, or rather, forget what was important, and focus on random little things.

He glanced into the kitchen and spotted a bucket half-full of water on a bench, so he thought about washing his hands and the axe. His hands were covered in blood.

He dropped the axe, letting the blade splash into the water, grabbed a piece of soap that was in a broken saucer on the window, and started scrubbing his hands in the bucket.

When they were clean, he pulled out the axe, washed the blade, and spent a long time - like, three whole minutes - scrubbing the wood where there were bloodstains, using the soap.

Then he wiped it all down with some linen hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen, and then he just stared at the axe at the window for a while. There wasn’t a trace left on it, just the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in its loop under his coat.

Then, as best he could in the dim light of the kitchen, he checked over his overcoat, his pants, and his boots. At first glance, it just looked like there were stains on the boots. He wet the rag and scrubbed the boots.

But he knew he wasn't looking closely enough, that there might be something really obvious that he was missing. He stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought.

Dark, agonizing thoughts flooded his mind - the idea that he was crazy and that he couldn't think straight, that he was totally vulnerable and needed to be doing something completely different from what he was doing.

"Oh my God!" he muttered.

"I gotta get out, gotta go!" and he rushed into the entry.

But here, a wave of terror hit him like he’d never felt before.

He stood there, staring, and couldn't believe his eyes: the door, the outer door from the stairs, the one he’d been waiting at and ringing just a little while ago, was unlatched and open - at least six inches! No lock, no bolt, the whole time, all that time!

The old woman probably forgot to shut it after him, maybe as a precaution. But, seriously, why? He’d seen Lizaveta afterwards! And how could he have failed to think that she must have come in somehow? She couldn't have walked through the wall!

He bolted to the door and latched it.

"But no, wrong thing again! I gotta get away, gotta go..."

He unlatched the door, opened it, and started listening on the staircase.

He listened for a long time. Somewhere far away, maybe in the courtyard, two voices were loudly and angrily shouting, arguing and yelling. "What are they fighting about? He waited patiently. At last, everything went quiet, as if it was suddenly cut off; they had split up.

He was about to go out when, suddenly, a door on the floor below slammed open, and someone started going downstairs humming a tune.

"Why are they all making so much noise?" flashed through his mind.

Once more, he closed the door and waited. At last, everything was still, not a soul stirring. He was just about to step towards the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps.

The steps sounded really far away, way down at the bottom of the stairs, but he remembered super clearly that from the first sound, he started feeling like someone was coming up to the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds weird or something?

The steps were heavy, steady, and not rushed at all. He’s already passed the first floor, climbing higher now, and it was getting clearer and clearer! He could hear his own heavy breathing. And now he’s reached the third floor. Coming here!

And suddenly, it felt like he’s turned to stone, like he’s stuck in a nightmare where you’re being chased, almost caught, and about to be killed, and you're frozen, totally unable to move even your arms.

Finally, when the stranger was climbing to the fourth floor, he suddenly jumped, and managed to slip back into the apartment and quietly shut the door behind him. Then he grabbed the bolt and softly, silently, locked it. Instinct took over.

Once he did that, he crouched, holding his breath, by the door. The visitor was already at the door too. They were standing face-to-face, just like he had been with the old woman, before the door separated them and he was listening.

The visitor panted a few times.

"He’s gotta be a big, fat dude," thought Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand.

It really did feel like a dream. The visitor grabbed the bell and rang it loudly.

As soon as the tin bell jingled, Raskolnikov felt like he noticed something moving in the room. He listened intently for a few seconds. The stranger rang again, waited, and then suddenly yanked the door handle violently and impatiently.

Raskolnikov stared in horror at the bolt shaking in its fastening, and in complete terror expected it to be ripped out any minute. It totally seemed possible, with how hard he was shaking it. He was tempted to hold the bolt, but he’d probably be noticed. A wave of dizziness hit him again.

"I’m gonna fall!" flashed through his mind, but the stranger started talking and he snapped back to reality.

"What’s up? Are they asleep or dead? D-damn it!" he yelled in a rough voice. "Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, you old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn it! Are they asleep or what?"

And again, enraged, he yanked at the doorknob with all his might, a dozen times. He definitely had to be someone important and knew her well.

Just then, light, hurried footsteps were heard not far away, on the stairs. Someone else was approaching. Raskolnikov hadn't noticed them at first.

"You’re telling me no one’s home?" the newcomer cried in a cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first visitor, who was still ringing the bell. "Good evening, Koch."

"He sounds pretty young," thought Raskolnikov.

"Who the heck knows? I’m about to break the lock," answered Koch. "But how do you know me?"

"Why! I beat you three times in a row at billiards at Gambrinus’."

"Oh!" he said sarcastically

"So they’re not home? That’s weird. That’s totally lame though. Where could the old woman have gone? I came on business."

"Yeah; and I have business with her, too."

"Well, what can we do? Go back, I guess. Aie - aie! I was hoping to get some cash!" cried the young man.

"We gotta give it up, of course, but what did she set this time for? The old witch set the time for me to come myself. It’s totally out of my way. And where the heck she could have gone, I can’t figure out."

"She sits here year after year, that old hag; her legs are bad and yet here she is, suddenly out for a walk!"

"Shouldn’t we ask the porter?"

"What?"

"Where she’s gone and when she’ll be back."

"Hm... Damn it!... We could ask... But you know she never goes anywhere."

And he yanked at the doorknob once more.

"Seriously?! There’s nothing we can do, we gotta go!"

"Wait!" the young man yelled suddenly. "Do you see how the door shakes when you pull it?"

"So, why is that important?"

"That means it’s not locked, just latched with a hook! Hear that clank?"

"Okay... and why is that important?"

"Don’t you get it? That proves someone’s home. If everyone was out, they’d have locked the door with a key from the outside, not just latched it from the inside. Listen, the hook's clanking again! Latching the hook means they’re inside, see? So they’re just sitting there, not opening the door!"

"Wow! You’re right!" Koch exclaimed, amazed. "What are they even doing in there?"

And he started banging on the door like crazy.

"Hold up!" the young man cried again.

"Don’t force it! Something’s definitely wrong... You’ve been ringing and pulling at the door, and they still aren’t opening! So either they’ve both passed out or...". "Or what?"

"Look, let’s get the doorman, let him wake them up."

"OK Fine. Let's go"

They were heading downstairs.

"Stay. You hang out here while I run down for the doorman."

"Why do I have to wait?"

"Just...you should. Ok!"

"Okay! I'll Wait here!"

"I’m studying law, you know! It’s obvious, evident, something’s messed up here!" the young man shouted, and he bolted downstairs.

Koch stayed put. He touched the bell again - just one little ring - then gently, like he was thinking things over, started fiddling with the doorknob, pulling it and letting it go to double-check that it was just latched with the hook.

Then, puffing and panting, he bent down and peered into the keyhole: but the key was inside, so he couldn’t see anything. Raskolnikov stood gripping the axe tight. He was in a daze. He was even getting ready to fight when they came in.

While they were knocking and talking, he kept thinking about just ending it all and yelling at them through the door. Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to tease them, while they couldn’t even open the door!

"Just hurry up!" flashed through his mind.

"But what the heck is going on?..."

Time was ticking by - one minute, then another - still no one came. Koch started getting antsy.

"Seriously?" he cried suddenly, abandoning his post, and he, too, headed down, stomping and thumping with his heavy boots on the stairs.

The sounds slowely faded away.

"Oh man, what am I supposed to do?"

Raskolnikov unlatched the hook, opened the door - complete silence. Without even thinking about it, he went out, shutting the door behind him, and went downstairs. He’s made it down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice below - where could he go! There was nowhere to hide.

He was just heading back to the apartment.

"Hey! Stop that guy!" Someone dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and more tripped than ran down the stairs, yelling at the top of their lungs.

"Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Ugh, blast him!"

The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was quiet. But at that same moment, several men talking loudly and quickly began noisily climbing the stairs.

There were three or four of them. He could hear the young man’s clear voice. "Hey!"

Totally bummed, he headed straight for them, thinking, "Whatever happens, happens! If they stopped him - game over; if they let him pass - still game over; they're gonna remember him. They were getting closer - just a few steps away - and suddenly, a way out!

A few steps to his right, there was an empty apartment with the door wide open, the one on the second floor where the painters had been working, and which, as if just for him, they'd just left. It was them, no doubt, who had just run down, yelling.

The floor had just been painted, and in the middle of the room stood a bucket and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In one instant, he zipped in through the open door and hid behind the wall - and just in the nick of time; they’d already reached the landing.

Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, tiptoed out and ran down the stairs.

Nobody was on the stairs, or in the entryway. He hurried through the entryway and turned left onto the street.

He knew, he knew that right then, they were at the apartment, that they were totally confused finding it unlocked, since the door had just been locked, that they were probably staring at the bodies, and that before you knew it, they'd figure it out and realize the killer had just been there, managed to hide, slip by them and escape.

They'd probably guess he'd been in the empty apartment while they were going upstairs. And meanwhile, he couldn't speed up much, even though the next corner was still almost a hundred yards away.

"Should he duck into some alley and wait in an unknown street? No way! Should he ditch the axe? Should he grab a cab? Forget about it, hopeless!"

Finally, he reached the corner. He turned down it, feeling totally drained. Here, he was halfway to safety, and he got it; it was less risky because there was a huge crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a grain of sand.

But everything he'd been through had worn him out so much that he could barely move. Sweat was dripping down his face, his neck was soaked.

"Wow, he’s been through it!" someone shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank.

He was only vaguely aware of himself now, and the farther he went, the worse it got. He remembered, though, that when he’d come out on the canal bank, he’d been freaked out finding so few people there and being so noticeable, and he’d thought about turning back.

Even though he was practically falling from exhaustion, he went a long way around so he could get home from a totally different direction.

He wasn't really awake when he went through his house's front door. He was already halfway up the stairs before he remembered the axe. And he had a seriously big problem - he needed to put it back and get away without anyone noticing.

Of course, he couldn't think about how it might be way better to just ditch the axe somewhere, like in someone's yard. But luckily, the porter’s room door was closed, but not locked. It seemed like the porter was probably home.

But he's totally lost his ability to think straight, so he just walked right up to the door and opened it. If the porter had asked, "What’s up?" he probably would have just handed him the axe.

But again, the porter wasn't there, and he managed to sneak the axe back under the bench, even covering it with that piece of wood like before. He didn’t see anyone, not a single person, on his way back to his room. The landlady’s door was shut tight.

When he got to his room, he just flopped onto the couch, exactly as he was - he didn't sleep, he just blanked out. If anyone had walked in then, he would have instantly jumped up and screamed.

Just bits and pieces of thoughts were bouncing around in his head, but he couldn't grab onto anything, couldn't settle on a single thought, no matter how hard he tried...