No Need for Hallucinations

In the corner of his room stood a screen much like the one in Anastasia's. Beside it, a woman's face peeked out. Mikhail sighed and dragged a hand down his face.

"Haa…."

He let out a dry laugh at the woman smiling at him. It was the same face that had left him speechless earlier that day.

The reason he could be certain the Anastasia appearing beside the screen was a hallucination was that her face was far too unblemished.

No marks of blows, no tracks of tears—her clean face had filled out, a healthy flush coloring her plump cheeks. Her once-dry hair still gleamed with luster even in the sunless space behind the screen, and her round eyes sparkled with the color of a summer forest. And those lips curved in a quiet smile he had never once seen before.

Mikhail bit his lip. He thought he understood now why Igor had flushed scarlet and dodged the question when asked what he had seen. A drug that showed you what you wanted so vividly. It was a damn fine drug. No wonder the number of addicts would keep growing.

He looked down at his own hand. He had called it a hallucination, yet every sense felt normal except for the presence of something that should not exist. That made the woman before him feel all the more real.

Bracing a hand against his side, Mikhail slowly rose. As if she had sensed his approach, the face that had appeared beside the screen vanished in a flash—quick as a squirrel fleeing a human in the woods.

As if she could go anywhere. This illusion belonged entirely to him. The room was locked tight; no door would open, and the woman could not escape him either. He moved exactly as he had wanted to earlier that day. Striding without hesitation to the screen, he shoved it aside with one merciless hand. He could not understand how he had held himself back from so simple an act during the day.

Acting on desire, he found Anastasia standing there, staring at him with startled eyes. But she neither screamed nor fled. After a moment's look she stepped forward of her own accord and stood before him. Her long, slender fingers brushed over the large hand pressing against his wound.

Even in the illusion, the instant Anastasia's hand touched him, a tingling ran down his spine. It truly was a goddamn fine drug.

About to reach out, Mikhail checked himself and stood still. He was curious how the Anastasia of his imagination would move.

Perhaps she was pleased he had not stopped her. She layered both her hands over one of his and beamed.

He had thought it would be hard to imagine, never having seen it in reality, yet the Anastasia in the hallucination smiled freely. Satisfied that he possessed more imagination than he had given himself credit for, he continued to watch her. She held his hand a moment longer, then slowly bowed her head.

The red hair that had shaken with sorrowful sobs against his chest earlier that day brushed the bare skin exposed by his open shirt. The swaying strands were soft and ticklish. Just as he registered the heat of her breath against his chest, her head continued its slow descent.

She gently pushed his hand aside. The force was weak, yet he offered not the slightest resistance and ended up exposing the wound completely.

Mikhail looked down. The gash in his side that Igor had restitched and cleaned lay fully revealed.

Even if it was a hallucination—to leave his weakness so defenseless before another person. The moment the absurdity struck him, Anastasia bowed her head still lower. Not the rough lips he had seen during the day, but warm, soft flesh lightly touched his wound.

Like worshippers kissing a holy relic in church, her act looked devout and sacred. Yet contrary to her actions, his body rose swiftly, filled with the basest of desires.

Even as the lower half of his loungewear grew massive in an instant, Anastasia neither startled nor drew back; she kissed the wound once more. Soft hair tickled the most sensitive place beneath the cloth. The moment he clenched his teeth, she carefully parted her lips and spoke.

"Thank you, Mikhail."

A voice full of affection, as if addressing someone very dear. In that instant he realized he could no longer endure—and that there was no need to endure, either.

He seized her wrist and dragged her to the bed. With a soft thud her slender body fell onto the mattress, and he laughed again. The Anastasia of the hallucination was wearing the loungewear he had given her that day—so very well, so demurely.

"It suits you just as I thought."

He climbed onto the bed and trapped her body between his knees. Still she neither screamed nor fled. She did not even tear up. Instead, without erasing her smile, she spread her arms toward him—as if asking to be held.

At the sight of her smiling beneath him, Mikhail felt genuine shame for the first time in a long while. The drug Igor had given him showed with horrifying clarity what lay at the bottom of desire. He reached out and gripped the collar of her clothes.

"But why are you wearing something like clothes?"

At his words she tilted her head, arms still outstretched, and moved her small lips.

"You don't like it? I wore it because you gave it to me."

Watching her answer, he clenched his teeth again. Damned drug. There was no need to show what he wanted so blatantly. Walking naked through the square would have been less shameful than this. He suffered as he faced the pure desire the hallucination laid bare.

"It's not that I don't like it."

How could he not? When he had told the maids to leave the clothes earlier, he had imagined putting them on her himself.

If he stripped away all those rag-like garments, the body she had tried so hard to wrap and hide would be fully revealed. Then he would examine every part of her. To check whether this weak frame had been further injured while that dog of a man had been pressing her down.

After looking over every corner, touching to confirm she was unharmed, he would slowly lower a linen petticoat—sheer enough to show what lay beneath—over her bare body from the head down. Her fine red hair would scatter prettily across the pure white linen. The demurely donned linen would faithfully reveal every curve.

Then he would reach out again, dress her in the soft loungewear, and fasten the buttons up to the throat until the result was so neat it would be hard to believe a man's hands had put it on. Just like the Anastasia beneath him now.

"You put it on so neatly."

Perhaps because it was a hallucination, the skirt hem lay prettily spread without a single wrinkle. He rose and climbed off her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he commanded the bewildered Anastasia.

"Anastasia."

"Yes."

An obedient, docile voice. She looked at him with the very attitude he always wanted from everyone. He voiced the basest desire he most wished for.

"Take it off yourself."

For me. Yourself. Then she answered with a bright smile.

"I can't do that."

"…Why not?"

Kneeling on the bed, she clasped her hands in a posture as devout as when she had kissed his wound, and answered.

"Because God said not to walk the path of corruption."

In that moment the ground beneath his feet heaved violently. He lost his balance and shook wildly. Absurdly, he thought that a God he did not even believe in was punishing him—for the sin of trying to violate His little lamb with desire.

He reached out. He tried to grasp Anastasia, yet even though she stood right before him his hand could not reach her. The moment he thought the surroundings were darkening—

"……!"

Mikhail opened his eyes. The sensation of opening them again even though they had already been open was extremely strange.

"Haa…."

He sat up and looked around. It was the exact same scenery he had seen moments before. The bed he had lain on, the foreign screen a short distance away, the medicine Igor had left.

Everything was the same—except one thing. The Anastasia who had been on his bed was gone without a trace.

"Crazy…."

He roughly raked his hair back. Realizing that everything he had seen was an illusion, a massive sense of emptiness crashed over him. He reached for the water glass on the side table. Gulp after gulp, the water Igor had poured went roughly down his throat. Even after emptying the glass the thirst would not leave. Burning with it, he finally rose.

Noticing the fine tremor in the hand that held the glass, he gave a bitter smile. What was this state—like a boy after his first wet dream? In the end the person who had appeared in his illusion had been only one woman dressed very demurely, and yet he was panting like this over it.

Even in the illusion, Anastasia had sought God at the end and refused to come to him.

"I decided to spend until summer here."

He had decided to remain three months until the wound fully healed. Igor and Yury had suggested he set work aside for a while and invent some kind of hobby. He had heard the words, yet he had never decided what he ought to do besides work.

"……."

He recalled the words he had spoken to her at the end of the illusion. And the sight of her refusing his command, seeking God instead.

"No need for hallucinations."

He rose, picked up the medicine from the table, and threw it out the open window.

His eyes, staring into the darkness, gleamed.

"Because it can become reality."

It seemed he had finally found a suitable task to soothe his boredom while he stayed in this tedious place.