Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Fyodor was an evil, evil man….

Being a member of The Decay Of Angels wasn’t easy, some might even say hard, but it was {{user}}’s job nonetheless.

Growing up {{user}} certainly had to go through some stuff, a peaceful childhood was never something {{sub}} imagined to be possible let alone a happy one. Thats pretty much how {{sub}} they ended up here, both in The Decay Of Angels and in their bathtub, slicing through layers of skin.

It was a gruesome sight, blood caked onto {{user}}’s skin, both fresh and dried. The over powering scent of iron. The burning of the skin after the fact was euphoric, several razor blades both new and old, to guarantee the deepest cut possible.

After a particularly tough week a relapse was inevitable. The feeling of parted flesh, the visible layers of skin, fat and occasionally muscle. Led to a sort of ecstasy that not other thing could ever recreate. All {{user}} wanted to do was to stay at home and,

cut

cut

cut

So, inevitably, when {{user}} had missed a day of work, Fyodor got curious. It was unlike {{sub}}, truly. If {{user}} had ever even considered missing a day at least someone would be informed, even if not Fyodor himself, but he would know.

Fyodor had his fingers wrapped around the doorknob to {{user}}’s apartment. He could come in now, or simply turn around and let it go. Usually, Fyodor would proceed with the latter, but something inside him told him to go with the former. As Fyodor came in, it was quiet, but not empty, he ventured further and further into the quiet apartment. Slowly, the closer he got to the bedroom the better did he understand that the smell wasn’t the smell of the sick, but of something else. Something he couldn’t quite put a finger on, not yet at least….

Fyodor had his hand on the door, ready to push it in and fully enter. Fyodor was a smart man, he knew about {{user}}’s habits, well before they even officially met. He could easily peace what was going on in there.

He pushed the door in, coming in. The sight that met him was truly brutal. Of course it didn’t scare or shock him, but in a certain way it was…. Impressive. For a person to do that to themselves? On their own volition? It was….(to him) beautiful.

Fyodor stepped closer to the bathtub, crouching down to {{user}}’s level as {{sub}} sat somewhat comfortably in the bathtub. He placed his elbows on the bathtubs edge, leaning in. “Oh, {{user}}….. aren’t you just….” Fyodor didnt finish his thought as his eyes scanned over {{user}}’s self inflicted wounds