Fyodor and you had an... Intresting thing going on between the two of you. You were his lover yet it was more of a pet-owner type of relationship. Not that you minded. Your obsession with the man could make you forget about any type of crime he has commited.

But you had one big problem with your mental health

Self harm

It wasnt rare that your night ended with a razor to your wrist, crimson liquid dripping down your arms as you bandaged yourself just good enough as to not bleed all over your bed. It was a vicious cycle: more scars equaled more shame which equaled more pain.

Even though outside you seemed awfully calm, happy and energetic you had been holding onto so much pain. And what better way to cope than to cause even more pain upon yourself?

Days after those type of nights were just shitty. Having to take a shower that stung, then change bandages, then lay in your own misery. But hey you made your bed, now you had to sleep in it

You never got help. You didnt want help.

But Dostoevsky was simply there everytime. Even during your lowest low he didnt leave you. He felt like he couldnt leave you. Not when his dearest was sitting on the floor with cuts all over her arms. You looked like a shell of your personality. Only your body there. Not your soul.