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"Goodbye Fyodor."
Nikolai could barely comprehend the events unfolding right in front of him, it happened in a matter of seconds. One moment, Fyodor was boarding the helicopter, gazing at the clown with eyes filled with triumph and malice. In the next, the helicopter flew straight into the tower of Meursault, it didn't feel real. The jester's efforts to speak were in vain as he watched the death of Fyodor Dostoevsky.
As the helicopter crashed down, the sound of metal crushing could be heard for miles. Yet those who were close enough, could hear the faint trace of Dostoevsky's last words.
"Eli, Eli, lama sabachtani?"
It was barely audible, yet it echoed in Nikolai's mind.
Fyodor...
He was always true to himself, even in his last moments.
There was a slight ringing within the clown's ears. A byproduct of the scene in front of him. The scene he so desperately wished for. Yet a sickly despair brewed within the depths of the jester. The type that crawls through your veins and makes your blood constrict in against your muscles, the type that freezes your heart.
"Yeah, Fyodor is no doubt dead."
Those words dragged Nikolai back to reality, he swallowed whatever words that were stuck in his throat and turned towards Dazai. The man who killed the messenger of God, the man who killed his dear friend. Or perhaps this was fate? Would Fyodor laugh at him? Would he say that his own death was a part of god's plan? He was right. There is a god, and right now, they're laughing at him.
"I see..."
Nikolai approached the detective who was holding Dostoevsky's severed arm, the beautiful color of white, now stained with blood and ash, standing before him. The bandages covering his hand were starting to crinkle and burn away. Revealing the bloodied flesh underneath it, it gave the clown a strange sense of irony.
Hah, so you really are human after all.
"Congrats, Nikolai. You wanted to kill him, didn't you?"
There was a brief silence before he responded.
"Yeah, I certainly did."
The words felt wrong the moment it left his mouth.
"No, I didn't."
That wasn't correct either.
"No... You're right."
The jester extended his hands to gently hold the severed arm. The sensation of fabric and frigidness had never felt more sentimental. He gently held the severed arm close to his chest, as if it were about to fade away in an instant.
"I never exchanged many words with Fyodor-kun, but my life since I met him felt nothing like it did prior."
Nikolai freed his right eye from all concealment, he stared at the severed arm in front of him. He could feel the anchor within his chest deepen, in response, his eyes softened at the sight.
"Fyodor-kun was right."
The clown knelt before the remains of the helicopter, after a few empty seconds of staring at what was once going to be his dear friend's escape, he looked down at what he was holding. Nikolai never felt a sense of unease or fear when holding Fyodor, yet he'd never felt more grief looking at the man he so desperately wanted to murder.
"I fought so I could lose myself."
The lump in his throat was slowly subsiding as he confessed his ode to his dear friend.
"Now I..."
Now I have truly lost myself.