United States

I love writing. Writing can express feelings in many different ways. We can share what we wish without speaking.
Also go follow Camlily she’s amazing!! <3

Message from Writer

Practice makes Perfect.
If you aren't a good writer now, practice and you will be.
Mistakes will come and go but don't dwell on them too much.

Fake Reality, True Fantasy

January 26, 2020


     That is one suspicious man. I went back to examining the evidence from Alyona Ivanovna’s case. Only one piece of evidence had been recovered from the scene. The rest seemed to have vanished along with the pawnbroker’s wealth. It was hard to suspect who did it as no one had gained a surplus of wealth in the previous days. The picture, showing dusty handprints and scratches from what seemed to be a knife, was the only piece of evidence recovered from the scene.   

“Hey Ilya! Come look at this!” I yelled waving my arm, calling him over to me. 

He ran over quickly to see what had been found. I pointed at the handprints. 

“If you look closely, those handprints have specks of what seems blood. We have to go back to test it!”  

    He looked at me wide eyed. Motioning me to follow, I ran behind him to the pawnbroker’s apartment. When we got there, we hustled up the stairs and checked the door but, it was our bad luck that the door had been wiped clean. We sulked back to the station, hanging our heads in denial. 

“That man- Raskolnikov- is certainly the murderer! His face and everything,” I sighed, “he acts fidgety and constantly faints when nervous and sick. There’s no evidence to prove it just like Anastasia’s case.” 

Ilya Petrovitch looked at me weirdly urging me to continue. 

“Who is this, Anastasia you speak of?” 

    I pulled a chair from a nearby desk in the station. The station was scattered with case papers-including Alyona’s. Ilya sat on the chair and I sat on a gray stool across him. 

“This happened when I was twenty-two, thirteen years ago. This was three years before you were transferred over here. I just started working here. I came home one day from the station to find my sister, Anastasia, had been murdered.”  

Ilya nodded in sympathy and moved his hands showing me he wished to continue. 

“Seeing Alyona, I felt the same way as I had back then. Anastasia’s murderer had run away. Till this day, there have been no traces of who did it. Alyona and Lizaveta have been murdered thirteen years later, on the same date. I know I'm not a superstitious guy, but everyone knows thirteen is an unlucky number and this seems quite strange. Back then, the suspect had these same characteristics; fainting, stuttering, nervous fidgeting- exactly like Raskolnikov.” 

Ilya was shocked with realization by now. The evidence was all there, just couldn’t be proven. 

“But Porfiry, we have no evidence. He’s only a suspect. Only hope is we get him to confess otherwise this case might end the same way,” he said quietly. 

I shook my head in defeat. There was no way I could convince him to confess. Ilya stood up and patted my shoulder. 

“We might have to drop the case then. Don’t take it to heart. God knows what happened. Only he can save Raskolnikov from this sin,” Ilya said, calmly reassuring me. 


    Ilya walked out the room, leaving me to think. How could I get this man to confess? I can’t let history repeat itself. I must talk to him before things go wrong. Walking out of the station, I headed into the dusty path, covered in filth. I walked straight to the apartment of Rodya Raskolnikov. The door, scratched wood and a loose doorknob, slowly opened as I knocked twice. His eyes were bloodshot red, and his eye bags were dark as coal. He straightened up as soon as he saw who it was. 

“May I come in sir?” 

“Uhh-I mean yeah, yes, yes you may come in.” 

    I entered and saw the state of the room. It was full of filth and the carpet was all beat up. He offered me to sit down on the sofa as he brought a chair across from me to sit in. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything to offer as food. I’m very poor and ill you see,” Raskolnikov looked down at his feet. 

“It is fine Rodian. I just came here to tell a story. A personal story about my sister. She was killed the same day as the pawnbroker and her sister.” 

    Rodian flinched at this. I must convince him. That is my one goal before I die. I told him the same story I told Ilya. At the end, he was tapping his foot. He looked as if he were shivering. I got up suddenly and turned around to leave. Raskolnikov stood just looked at me but did not stop me. I walked out the doorway and straight home. I had to give him time to think. I hope the story makes him think about confessing. Maybe realize that he’s wrong. If he isn’t the murderer though... 
    Entering my own house, I looked around. My door, falling off its hinges, screeched pushed. I went to sleep that night hoping for the best. The next morning when I went to the police station, I felt disturbed. I knew something was going to happen and it would happen soon.  
    The next week, Nikolay confessed. His confession was fake though. I already knew it the moment he let a word out his mouth. Raskolnikov was just about to confess too and he splattered dirt over everything. All those questions and efforts was for nothing! I was about to scream out of frustration and felt like kicking the chairs. It was tempting to strangle Nikolay and make him take back the confession so Rodian would confess but I couldn’t. I left the room without saying anything. I slowly filed in his confession. Eventually he would be presented in court.  
    The next couple of days was horrid. I couldn’t sleep from the horror that Nikolay was lying, and his confession was fake. It almost felt that him bursting into the room, out of breath, shouting out “I killed her!” was all just an awful dream.  

    One night, I had an unusual dream. It showed Raskolnikov, stumbling down the stairs to the station. He seemed to be grinning, but I wasn’t too sure. When he left the station, in front of him stood a young lady. She was wearing all black and seemed to have tears streaming down her face. Her pleading face seemed to shock Raskolnikov and make him rethink his decision. He turned around and went back up the stairs with slightly more confidence. When he got to the station though, his face was pale white like snow. In front was only Ilya, who beckoned him to sit.  

“I killed-,” Raskolnikov coughed. 

“Do you need water? Are you alright?” 

“It was I who killed the pawnbroker.”  

    And with that the dream faded away causing me to wake with a start. All of it seemed so realistic, so authentic. Rushing up, I ran to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. I drained the glass, spilling water all over the white shirt I had on. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I held my head in my hands. Why couldn’t this be easy? Why must I suffer and endure?  
    I shook my mind clear and drank another glass of water. Stumbling back to my bedroom, I stumbled upon a folder. I picked the folder up and opened it, inside was the case of the pawnbroker. The same folder that I had left back at the station. I jumped back dropping the folder and causing all the contents to spill out. The only visible paper on top was with the name Rodion Raskolnikov. Sitting on the ground hugging my knees, tempted to cry, I forced myself to get up and pick the folder up with shaking hands. The folder, cold and plastic with drops of water, was full of all the case papers. I reorganized them as my eyelids refused to stay awake and shuffled over to my bed. 

    I pulled the covers over my head and anxiously went to sleep. The next morning, I went in late to the station. Ilya saw my condition as I brought the folder back. 

“Are you okay Porfiry? And what is this? Is this not the folder that was here yesterday? Why did you have this?” 

    I just placed the folder on his desk without a sound and went back home. I didn’t come to work the next day. Two days later, I ended up at the station because I couldn’t live without the rubles. The next few days were dreaded. Wake up, go to the station, come home, eat, and sleep.  

    About two weeks later, I was leaving the station. At a distance, I saw Raskolnikov entering the station. Sighing, I started to turn till I heard pleading and crying. The hairs on my arms and legs all stood up at once as I turned around to face the noise. There stood a beautiful woman, wearing all black. Her hands were begging in front of Raskolnikov, who seemed to be almost crying. He wiped his tears and turned back around, almost tripping before going back up those stairs. The dream I had had seemed to be coming true. I couldn’t believe my eyes. 

When I came to the station the next day, I saw Ilya Petrovitch sitting with a sad smile on his face. 

“He was a good man, but you were right.” 

    Almost falling over with shock, I quickly straightened myself up. So it was true. I thought. I felt kind of bad for Raskolnikov, but it was the consequences of his own actions. The next week was decided when he would have his subpoena. During the trial, heavy tension spread in the air like a disease. Almost the whole town of St. Petersburg was there.  

After about five hours I heard the sentence that brought cruel but rightful satisfaction to my heart. 

“Rodion Raskolnikov. You have been found guilty for the manslaughter of Alyona and Lizaveta Ivanova, destruction of property, and stealing. The court sentences you to public execution for your crimes.” 

I sighed once again, except this time, it was out of relief. 
This was my narrative for English on the book Crime and Punishment
I got an A on it! Hope you enjoy!
Love ya guys <3
The paragraphs and indents got messed up while copying it over so bear with me :)


See History
  • January 26, 2020 - 6:12pm (Now Viewing)

Login or Signup to provide a comment.

  • CreativeAngel

    Thank you so much! It's people like you that make the world a happy place :)

    10 months ago
  • .amelia.

    It's a very gripping, suspenseful tale. I couldn't stop reading! :D Awesome writing!

    10 months ago