The Duel - Part 1/3

(This story is heavily influenced by "A Hero of Our Time", "The Brothers Karamazov" and the movie "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford")

(Part 2 - Part 3)

I

Pechorin sat in his study, reclined in a chair and stared at the ceiling. He could still hear them downstairs, his father’s wake now in full swing. “How many eulogies does a dead man need?” muttered Pechorin. His guilt laden heart responded with heaviness. He loved his father, more so than his siblings. It was he who cared for him when he was diagnosed with cancer whilst his siblings squabbled over potential inheritance.

It was for this that his father had given him the entire shipping company upon his death. Pechorin held his breath as he heard a speech finish below, only to be replaced by another. “Where were these parasites when he needed them?” exclaimed Pechorin, the carvings in the ceiling blurred as his eyes pooled.

“You’re the parasite” hissed a shadow by the door. Pechorin closed his eyes, carefully wiping the resultant tear tracks. His movements were intentionally slow, and the silence accompanying them had almost muted time. Now sitting up, Pechorin looked at the sulking shadow and forced a smile.

“Grushnitsky! My brother! What a pleasure.” said Pechorin.

“The pleasure is certainly not mine.” growled Grushnitsky. He was visibly more drunk than usual; his dishevelled beard complemented his fraying suit. Pechorin stayed silent, trying to decipher the drunkard and his scheme.

Grushnitsky wobbled into the study and planted himself in front of Pechorin. He slowly bowed, until his face was level with his brother’s, their eyes locked. Pechorin held his breath; the stench of alcohol laced with vomit was one he wasn't familiar with. Grushnitsky’s eyes were black, soulless, their emptiness made Pechorin uneasy.

“I demand satisfaction.” said Grushnitsky, an inappropriate pause pervaded each syllable.

“What?”

Grushnitsky, without flinching lifted his finger and pointed at a pair of pistols, the pride of their father, which hung above the fireplace. His lifeless eyes remained fixed on Pechorin’s.

“You want a duel?!” gasped Pechorin.

“Yes.”

“This is the 21^st century Grusha. If you have issue with me you see my solicitor.” said Pechorin, calmly. Grushnitsky’s face warped into a terrifying grin.

“Just like Dad you are. You are a coward.”

Pechorin was immediately up on his feet, his face betraying his anger. His pride was his Achilles heel, and Grushnitsky knew this all too well. Pechorin could feel the adrenaline poisoning him. He could see that his brother wasn't joking.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“I’ve done nothing to deserve this. You’re drunk Grusha.”

Grushnitsky vocalised his grin, a cackling laugh ensued.

“I despise you Pechorin. I despise that you have what I have not. I despise the fact you are alive. It would have been a wonderful day if both you and father were in that coffin.” slurred Grushnitsky. His words had visibly shaken Pechorin, who at this point had succumbed to his dented pride.

“You know one of the pistols can’t fire.” muttered Pechorin.

“Ah! So you’re considering it! Wonderful!” said Grushnitsky, his face epitomised malice as he began to pace the room. “That’s the maaa-aagic of it. One of us gets the faulty pistol. We proceed with the duel. Fate will decide the rest.”   

Pechorin’s mind was hard at work. His conscience was unusually silent, and his long suppressed hatred of his brother materialised in an overwhelming wave of anger. He knew his brother did not stand a chance; Pechorin was a highly skilled marksman whilst his brother would most certainly be too drunk to hold his bladder, let alone fire a weapon. At worst he would intentionally wound his brother, maybe in the shoulder, as a warning.

“Meet me at the docks at midnight. Bring your second.” said Pechorin solemnly.

Grushnitsky forcibly grasped his brother’s hand. Pechorin felt his brother’s soiled hand rub against his soft palm. Grushnitsky winked at his brother, spun around and ran out of the study.

For the next few minutes, Pechorin stood in the same spot, his eyes staring at the pistols and his mind trying to make sense of it all.