Nikolai Gogol

Fyodor was sitting on the cold floor of his room. The hot tears that he so rarely allowed himself flowed down his pale cheeks, dripping onto his home clothes. The parents were fighting again, throwing things and insulting each other with obscene words. Little Dostoevsky is so tired of this. I wanted to run, hide, disappear, anything to avoid hearing this horror. Even worse, he was bullied at school, as he was very different in his behavior. Fyodor was quieter and calmer than the others, but he was an excellent student. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of dishes being thrown at each other by one parent. Dostoevsky shrank even more, burying his face in his bent knees, when suddenly he felt warmth and light behind his back. He turned around, eyes wide, seeing the creature on the windowsill—Nikolai. Gogol literally glowed, giving off warmth and soothing with a smile. Fyodor did not immediately notice that he had white wings, like an angel's. "Are you okay?"