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Dazai Osamu was sitting at the window. His dark brown eyes glancing on the landscapes of Yokohama; he found himself sighing. The sun was starting to set down, coloring the sky of a crimson red shade. It was beautiful, but unreachable. He couldn't touch it because, no matter how hard he tried, everything he tried to do would, eventually, fail.
Yet, he still managed to run his not so normal life. Everyday, walking to the agency, annoying his colleagues and then going home. With the often delight of a failed suicide attempt.
He was holding a black pen, his bandages touching the plastic from time to time. Dazai was writing a letter. A poem to someone he deeply cared about, yet,he was at loss of words. So much to write, but at the same time, nothing to put on paper that really was worth of making him read.
As the sun completely disappeared over the bay. The man stood up after managing to writing something he considered acceptable for him.
The next day, he wrote a new poem for him. He still struggled in finding something for him, yet, it still was simpler than the day before.
On his way back from the agency, he left the two letters sliding inside the red mailbox. Stopping for a moment, watching the sun reflecting on the cold iron, he smiled. Because, even if only partially he was happy. Even if he wasn't able to feel complete, and all of his emotions seemed always partial. He still was happy.
He would reply to him. And Dazai would be so happy to read the words of black ink that person would compose for him to read.
The third day, the fourth and for the rest of the year, Dazai wrote a poem everyday to him. It became an hobby, something he always did, no matter how tired he was. No matter how self destructive he felt. He waited for his replies, writing more and more poems to him. Smiling at the memories he had made with him, and waiting endlessly for a single letter that would made him feel...loved perhaps.
The first year, Dazai wrote desperately. Without rest because he had nothing to live for if not him. And, he was alright with that in a way. He sent a letter for every single day of the year, even when it was Christmas (not that he celebrated it anyway). Sticking the stamps on the paper with a smile on his lips.
Yet, a year passed but nothing was heard from him. Dazai excused him though, the mafia have take control over the post offices and burned down the letters. That was the excuse for that year, it was irrational and stupid, but he stood stuck with it no matter what.
The second year, Dazai still wrote to him. He still hoped that maybe, he would get an answer. A sign that his efforts had been received. He still struggled with writing, yet, he was getting almost used to it. Looking from his apartment in the agency dormitory, he enjoyed looking at the skyline of Yokohama. His city; build near the sea and with so many interesting things in it. It was a place full of memories, the only place he had ever been to. Is not like, he had ever travelled a lot. He enjoyed his home, staying at night, staring out of the window unable to sleep.
Calmly, sitting on his comfortable chair in the kitchen, Dazai looked out of the window. It was late at night, the blue sky was almost black, the white stars lightning it softly. He liked the sky, it was so vast everything shades to nothing in confront to it. It made him a bit sad, yet, everything made him like that. But he was good at hiding,at deceiving others because it was something he had always done.
Only with him, he was a little less sad. A little bit happy. Even if it was only temporary, he cheered their moments because nothing else made him feel alive in that way. Yet, as he glanced through the window, doubt got over him. It pained him, as if a long thin knife stabbed him in the heart. What if he would never write to him? What if he had forgot him or moved away far away from where Dazai could reach him.
This thoughts squeezed the breath out of him, making him drop the nicely warm cup of coffee he was holding. Shattering on the ground with a loud crash, Dazai snapped out of it.
Calming down, almost immediately even if his breath rate still was far from normal. He glanced at the white pieces of his favorite cup, laying on the floor with coffee flowing out of it. Gathering the force necessary to stood up, he picked up the mug and throw it in the trash. Silently, without a sound. Perhaps, he had forgot how his voice sounded like, in the eerie silence of his apartment, the other sounds seemed distant and surreal.
But, even if that little attack was finished, he was feeling with no reason to live and a definitely unsafe need to destroy himself.
Pouring himself some sake, he started drinking it, first calmly until he drank directly from the bottle, easily emptying it. He was drunk, completely wasted. Yet, somehow, he managed to take some paper and a lighter. To commit suicide by inhaling the toxic gas of a fire, it wouldn't be to painful after all... No; it would have been beautiful. Watching the stars as his body would slowly pass out for the toxic gasses filling his room. He didn't cared if the room was of the agency for which he was working for; it didn't mattered to him if he would have burned down the entire building.
Because Dazai Osamu was a selfish person. He seeked death, don't caring for who he would have left behind him. Is not like, anyone cared truthfully for him. They were all lying, or just bearing with him, waiting for him to die. That's also why he seeked for death. Actually, he had multiple motives for dying but, he never enjoyed displaying them all to others. Except his beloved obviously.
As he struggled to start the fire, the idea of writing down a letter for his lover struck his mind. Successfully setting on fire something he didn't even remembered to own, he sat down at the table. Feeling sober somehow. He started to write, as the red flames lightned up his room. Yet, he didn't cared. It would cause his death, and, he was alright with it. Death didn't scared him, as he had accepted it long time ago as a way to free himself from the world. He wrote down, his last wish in a letter for his beloved, with flames similar to the ones you may find in Hell surrounding him. Dazai was rather surprised, he didn't knew that so many things could burn so easily; but, ultimately he was happy.
He didn't noticed passing out, engrossed in the poem he was writing so desperately for him. Neither did he noticed his colleagues bursting inside his apartment, worried sick for that man that, deep down, still believed that no one cared truly for him.
Oh, if only he had been conscious, maybe, nothing of this would have happened. But, as I said, the gas filling his apartment had making him collapse soonly after finishing the poem.
As he woke up in a hospital, he glanced around. The white ceiling, the white sheets, everything was of some shade of that color. If he had been slightly less lucid, maybe, he would have thought that he was in the afterlife. White after all was the color of death. But, he was nevertheless perfectly lucid and sane. That's why he wasn't surprised of the young nurse entering soonly in his room for some sort of check-up. He smiled and waved a little at the young woman which quickly disappeared at the resarch of a doctor.
In the next days, he stood in the hospital. Writing poems for his beloved even if everyone told him to rest a little. But he couldn't. How could he after all sleep the days away, waste them in a white room. Dwelling over his pathetic mistakes and failed suicide attempts.
While he was recovered at the hospital, he kept writing poems for him. Everyday he wrote something about how beautiful He was or comparing him to the natural world. He got a few visits. Not that he had expected any; Atsushi was able to be even more caring that he could have thought of. Yet, it still seemed off. All the relationships he had seemed off; as if they were just some sort of pretty lie... And, since everything seemed fake; the only thing that looked real for Dazai seemed even more sure and perfect. If the reality itself wasn't the truth; then, his beloved was the prettiest and purest lie he could have ever heard of saw.
In the third year; Dazai mastered the various beautiful forms of literature. He kept writing everyday, waiting and hoping endlessly to hear something from him. Because, that man had gave him hope; and, he couldn't lose it so easily. Or at least, not on something like that. After all, he had lost the possibility of becoming a real human being oh so many years ago. Maybe though, he wasn't born with that possibility in the first place.
The poems Dazai sent to him, were now literature. Not anymore short letters for his beloved but full pieces of dedication and passion he wrote traditionally. Indeed, writing long letters to him brought a raise in his outcomes; getting bigger every month. But, he didn't cared. Dazai had still a lot of things he was willing to sacrifice in order to keep writing.
He didn't asked for a raise, as he couldn't consider himself worth of that possibility in the slightest. After all, at the bright light of the day,he still did little to nothing in matter of paperworks. He acted lazily, sleeping and listening to music on the comfortable couch in the reception; he slept his days away.
He didn't really knew when he had started to write his letters in the office; but soon enough, he started to write them on the paper he found in the agency.
Maybe though,it was simply a way for lowering the cost of all the material he used everyday. Obviously, bringing an hobby so dear to him to a cave full of possibly curious individual wasn't a good decision but, nevertheless he didn't cared in the slightest. He kept writing, with a calm and peaceful smile on his lips, not the ones he was usual to send to the girls he flattered or to his co-workers; but a true happy smile for the person he loved the most.
It was good for some time, they didn't annoyed him to much with the pile of paperworks that he usually secretly did at night and left him doing his business. But, obviously they became curious after a bit; they wanted to know what he was doing, why and to who he was sending all those poems to.
Only Ranpo and the president maybe knew the answer to those answers, excluding Dazai himself. But, they wouldn't talk, the young man was confident that they were able to understand how important all that work was for him.
Or maybe, the bribe Dazai had gave him (respectively a stray cat needing love and affection for some days and a big bag of candies and other snacks) was enough for both son and father.
In the same year, Dazai started to post his poems on a platform on which he was able to write his thoughts for others to read. He transcribed the letters for him on the platform, quickly gaining more and more appreciation for his works.
He kept his identity hidden for the more as possible, as he desired to keep his passions and ordinary life divided from each other; yet, soon his account got so many attention it became oversubscribed.
Which made Dazai smile, it made him radiating happiness hoping that he would notice him. That the beautiful person he was sending love poems to would have noticed his struggles, and, if not his despair; then his love at least.
But it didn't happened, Dazai didn't heard a single word from him for three years and the man heart pained him in melancholy. In the pure hope of hearing his words of praise and acceptation.
The fourth year came, years had passed but he loved him either way. He had started to visit the park he used to visit along with him; writing on the bench on which they sat down years before. He became a figure often saw there, smiling softly at the lovers passing by and writing endlessly. With the sun and the wind gently brushing against him.
Sending his love poems to the same person for years, every postman by now knew the address of his beloved; yet, he never visited that apartment himself.
He kept posting the letters he wrote on his oversubscribed account, smiling at the comments his followers left him, even at the negatives ones.
After all, nothing that they said to him was not true. So, they were just stating the truth by hating him; but it was alright because if Dazai hated himself as well, why should others love him?
Is not like Dazai truly believed that someone loved him, but still, he really did hoped that at least he didn't despised him. He was sure that his co-workers despised him, that they were tired of him yet they beared with his attitudes because he was still useful.
Around spring of that year, the young representative of a journalistic agency came to knock on his door.
He was a man in his young twenties, a few years younger than him; he had brown reddish hairs with dark brown eyes, almost black. He was wearing an elegant dark blue suit along with a light purple tie; although he radiated a responsible and smart aura around him, his height made him look like a kid dressing as an adult.
"How can I help you?" Dazai asked as he smiled softly, opening slightly the door. Enough to show his face but not enough to made the young journalist see the great mess laying in his apartment.
"Good evening, I'm from Yokohama's love sunshine magazine, I would like to talk to the man called Dazai Osamu about something" the young man said with a soft smile.
Dazai glanced at him, slightly suspicious but confident about being able to take him down without to many problems if necessary. "Sure thing..." Dazai said "although, I apologise for the mess" he ended as he smiled embarassed, opening the door over his apartment.
"Is alright" he said politely as he entered. Dazai gestured for him to sit down on the couch, which was full of papers of failed poems. Yama Souma, which was the name of the newcomer, made his way to the furniture; picking up some papers and trying to tidy them a bit.
As he found himself satisfied with the result, he placed them on the small table in front of him. It was full of empty bottles of sake and countless papers and reports. Both for his poems and for the agency; indeed, Yama thought, Dazai Osamu was a busy man. Or at least, it looked like that.
"So, how may I help you?" Dazai asked as he sat in front of him. Smiling like an old wise cat, calmly judging the person in front of him. It was slightly scary, yet, it also gave an unsure sense of peace around him.
"I came here today for proposing you a deal with our journal. We would like to have a contribution from a poet like you in the number for the next month" he stated calmly, as if he had done this countless times already.
Yet, Dazai's eyes, used to see every possible detail in the middle of a battle, noticed easily how Souma was playing anxiously with his hands.
Dazai stood silent, calmly waiting for the other to continue, the detective glanced at the other; his dark brown, almost black eyes, swimming in Yama eyes.
He knew that the young journalist had already finished; yet, he waited for the other to continue. To give him more details about the work.
"W-We will also pay you a small sum, regarding how many volumes we will sell, the company will also give you around...the 15% of the profit" he said not a lot later. The young journalist clearly was uncomfortable, playing with the money of the journal...it was a game that could have costed his job.
Dazai looked at him, calmly; pondering about the offer. He had already accepted the offer, Dazai already was sure about the offer; getting published on a program like that would give him major possibilities of hearing something from him.
Yet; if Souma was alright with highering the piece, he would keep going.
"The 35% of profits" Dazai proposed calmly, smiling peacefully and politely.
He had grew up in the mafia, under the instructions of Mori Ougai, logic and tactics were by now, so engraved in his mind and spirit he always did everything in his power to get what he wanted and a major profit.
Dazai was the youngest Mafia executive; and, unlike Chuuya, his former partner back in his Mafia days, he did negotiations. He talked with the bosses of the other criminal organizations and, in case they didn't wanted to be an ally of the Port Mafia; Chuuya would destroy the organization with him.
"20% , 30 is to much" Yama said almost immediately, making clear how tense he actually was. His first transaction, his first proposal for a contribution in all his career and; it could give him praises and rewards or the lost of his job. What an hard task; to deal with Dazai Osamu as his first actual work outside the office.
He was so tense, just like a violin string tied to much and ready to break.
"25% or I won't do it" Dazai said seriously, hiding the spontaneous smile forming on his lips, after all, he had always being good in hiding his true feelings, to the point he, by now, wasn't able to feel sincerely anymore.
Everytime he felt an emotion, it almost felt as if it was a lie. If he was simply acting an emotion again, to gain something; therefore, Dazai considered himself a completely emotionless person.
"... alright" Yama said after a minute or maybe simply a few seconds of hard thinking. It was the 10% higher than what suggested by the company; surely, his boss would tell at him like crazy for this.
Yet, the damage was done; and, there was no turning back now.
"You will receive the indications about the poem in the next days, could you write down your mail and phone number?" Yama asked calmly as he stood up, ready to go away.
He handed Dazai a paper for him to sign, waiting for the poet to do so; he glanced around. Or more specifically, his eyes stared wide opened at the rope hanging from the ceiling directly behind the door.
How didn't he noticed? It wasn't even that small, was that guy...Dazai, alright? It wasn't normal to have something like this in your house... But, he didn't said a word about it.
Taking the signed paper, he smiled calmly before walking away.
Writing everyday a new poem, he didn't found to many struggles in finding something decent for the journal. Yet, he wasn't satisfied in whatever he tried to write; the letters he sent were great pieces of literature by now, yet, it felt bad. Everything he touched almost immediately became wrong.
Because Dazai was wrong, he was an endless source of sins, therefore he damned everything he touched. Why though was he still alive? Why no one tried to kill him already? If he was so miserable, why simply not letting him die, why stopping him from suicide? Maybe though; no, most certainly; this was his punishment. To be alive, to be the one ending his own life, why coating in blood an innocent hands?
The day before the magazine he worked for got published; Dazai Osamu hanged himself. Kicking the chair on which he was standing with a rope around his neck, he felt all the air in his body get squeezed out of him. His vision getting blurred as pain took over him, he couldn't breath, he couldn't reach the floor... He still wanted to live.
This time, it was Atsushi the one who found him. Passed out, in his apartment with the door open, welcoming others to enter.
He got sent to the hospital again. Waking up some hours later, he found himself both relieved and saddened by him being still alive. He had failed again, what a failure, to be unable to end his own life.
Yet, he didn't talked about his problems; they weren't important, relevant for others... Why voicing them out? Why hearing his disgusting own voice talking about something even more worthless?
Following that line of thought, Dazai started to find everything less and less important; the oy thing that kept him from giving up and die, was his lover.
When he heard that the magazine had been a huge success because of him, he didn't believed it. Not because he thought that the journal was kind of...girly. But because he had worked in it, how come humans still didn't found him annoying? To see how loyal he was... wouldn't they become soonly annoyed and tired?
Yet, Dazai was wrong. People still could bear with the suicidal to be alive. And, they were planning to publish his poems, transcribing them down and make money with his works. And, he was alright with it; he hoped it would get attention...that he would reply.
He didn't. And Dazai lost hope, or at least, started to losing it and only his physical conditions kept him from jumping off a bridge; maybe, he thought, he was so worthless he didn't deserved attention. Yes, that was the answer. Since errors aren't suppose to exist, he was ignored, as a living error, instead of being killed, for now, he was ignored.
As the president came to know about the poetry collection, his growing number of suicide attempts and his more often ignored job, he called him in his office. Staring in each other eyes for seconds that seemed hours; Dazai wondered why Fukuzawa wanted to see him.
They talked about the various new needs of Dazai, more time for writing for example. Yet, the poet still couldn't really grasp the meaning for which he was called in. After some minutes of talking, the president of the agency sighed, indeed, what he was going to say wasn't either nice or easy to say. But, he had to do it anyway.
"Dazai, why don't you take a break from the agency business?" He asked, and, it came out more smoothly than the silver wolf had initially expected.
Dazai froze for a moment, his mind processing fastly what had been said; a break from the agency...an holiday; no, the president would have said so. If not a holiday then… oh,he was understimating it now, he smiled calmly even if doing so brought him pain. He was being fired form his job as a detective.
Not that he helped a lot in their business, after all, he was useless. Or at least, he considered himself as such, napping on the reception couch or writing without doing nothing productive all day along.
"... I'll start packing away then" he said with an empty and fake smile. Not that his usual one was better.
He pretty much stormed out of the office, heading with a fake calm to his desk, where he took out a cardboard box and calmly started to fill it. Be wanted to cry, yet, he didn't; if he cried everytime he needed to; he would have turned in a living fountain.
That's why Dazai Osamu was a liar, a deceiver. Someone who acted accordingly to the part and mask he had to choose to wear, rarely expressing his own emotions; so, he was a liar, and bit of an hypocrite as well.
Yet, packing with that calm he was faking, ignoring blatantly the states of everyone in the agency; Dazai managed to block his tears, except for a single one that rolled down his cheek and fell on the paper under him; marking it with an almost circular water drop.
How stupid from him, to damage one of the documents that wasn't his anymore. It wasn't his duty anymore to keep and fill up the various reports...not that place was his office anymore.
As he did half of the packing, he started to bit lips, forcing himself just to hang on a little longer; to don't cry for just another bit. But, he failed, as usual. As tears streamed on his face, Dazai started to move faster, trying to swallow the sobs he was making and just… disappear from the other detectives lives as soon as possible. He didn't wanted to bother them anymore since now he was just...an ex worker…
Dazai turned to Atsushi which was tapping lightly on his shoulder and wiped off the forming tears in his eyes. After all, the president had done it because it was the right thing to do.
"Yes Atsushi?" He asked, his voice cracking slightly at the end. Which made the younger worry even more; the weretiger eyes scanned his mentor, concern clearly visible in it.
"Are you alright Dazai?" A firm voice asked from in front of Dazai, well, behind him since the poet was watching Atsushi which was actually behind him. So, the detective that had spoken was actually in front of him..?
Kunikida's green greyish eyes scanned the ones if his now former partner. They were able to understand each other without talking, like good partners should do.
"Hm? Oh yeah, I'm just a bit tired… I won't show up for a bit…" Dazai said smiling. Lying blatantly, even if it was clear he was doing so. Yet,deceiving was something so carved in his mind that he constantly did it, without even realizing it.
The detective eyes scanned the poet suspiciously, Kunikida wasn't stupid, he knew that something was terribly wrong. Yet, he didn't wanted to interfere with Dazai course of actions. To bad, Dazai considered that as complete disinterest, if not as a silent cheer. Happiness coming from him leaving.
Thinking this way, Dazai grabbed the box with his belongings and stormed out of the office of the Armed Detective Agency.
He pretty much ran to his house, tears clouding his eyes; when had he became so emotional? He didn't knew, perhaps he wasn't allowed to know.
Bursting in his apartment crying by now, he simply let himself drop on the floor; dropping the box not so far away from him, he then kicked it far away from him. Not bearing the sight of it. He had lost again, the family he had worked so hard to keep had been torn apart from him. He had lost, and his failure burned in his mind, reminding him of how worthless he was.
Dazai didn't realized that he was screaming, it was a verse a beast would do more than a human, it was filled din pure despair. The scream of a wounded beast filled the apartment as tears kept pouring down Dazai eyes. He had to escape… left behind him this part of his life as well, this wasn't his home anymore, he wasn't allowed to see the members of the ADA anymore.
As his eyes dried up, and his voice disappeared; Dazai stood up, unsure on his own legs. Yes, he had to vanish from everyone life… with this idea in his mind, the poet went to the kitchen and opened a bottle of vodka like he did in the night in which he left the mafia. He emptied it then dragged himself around the house, gathering the few belongings he had gathered in four years. Some clothes, books and similar.
He threw them casually inside the big luggage that he had used when he had disappeared from the mafia. Yet, this time, he wouldn't need to know down for a few years… he was free to start his new life right now and there. Yet, he couldn't.
As he closed the door of his apartment; Dazai silently watched the key in his hand. He would have cried, but his tears were already finished; maybe he would have said something as a farewell to that chapter of his life, but his voice was now silent for how much he had screamed before.
Dazai Osamu walked away, leaving the apartment key on the table; he stepped out with despair in his sould and pain in his eyes.
He didn't needed to look where he was going. His feet knowing the way to Chuuya eyes by heart; the short redhead was his first partner, as well as one of the few people he knew exactly how were acting and thinking.
He pressed on the doorbell, knocking as well just to be sure that he was there and that he still was able to feel pain. His head automatically moved down, his eyes watching the floor under him, the weight of his guilt making him unable to watch others in the eyes.
Because, now he was truthfully himself. Chuuya had already saw every shade of himself so he didn't had to act around him. Aside him, only the poet lover was able to see the real Dazai.
He first heard his voice, then noticed the red hairs and ugly hat. Or maybe, it was because his eyes were crying again.
"Ohi what do you want at this...hour…" he started to say, just to hear his voice gradually fall silent as he glared at Dazai. The man was… different from his usual being, he wasn't faking. And, he was able to tell so simply by seeing him crying like a broken fountain on the entry of his house.
"...Dazai, for God sake what the fuc* did the detectives to you?" He asked sighing, hiding his concern deep down. Chuuya didn't needed to act weak, nor, did he had to show his true emotions to someone who was constantly fake.
As Dazai simply sobbed instead of answering, Chuuya sighed more and pushed the taller inside his apartment along with his luggage and shut the door close. After all, being seen with a traitor, could bring him death,or at least, some annoyance he wasn't so easy to kill after all; he both was an executive and a skilled ability user.
Dazai fell on the couch, shaking lightly, not saying a word; his throat was burning and his eyes were dry, his head was also spinning thanks to the alcohol he had drank before.
As Chuuya sat down in front of him; he glanced at the taller one, his behavior was… depressing, just watching him made others sad. He had saw him like that only the day in which that guy died.
So, something important must have happened. Yet, he was unaware of it, but, he would have discovered what was worrying Dazai, he was already depressed and suicidal, so, no need for him to be sadder.
In the fifth year, Dazai became a professional poet. Writing letters to his beloved, and his editors typing down everything before send it to him.
It was a good job, not happy and thrilling like the detective one, or cool and interesting like the one in the Mafia; yet, it was a good job.
He was payed regularly by his editor company and he was also growing a large fan base in Japan; Dazai's poems were now far different from the ones he was initially sending to his lover; because he was now a changed person. Or at least, he had felt so much pain in the year before that by now, his writing style also reflected part of his despair.
Dazai was especially known by young girls in their twenties, the age in which love should strike and make them marry their future. He as well was in his twenties; and, he was able to tell how love was a fancy option for all of them.
But, Dazai was so faithful that everyone else in the world looked like some kind of shaggy radish, because his lover was the only thing that he was really interested in.
He was living in a small apartment near the port of Yokohama, everyday he woke up with the sound of the waves and the blue of the sky outside the window. It was a peaceful place for someone who simply seemed for happiness and validation.
Sometimes, his ex colleagues from the ADA came visiting him; to check on him they said, but, according to Dazai, it was to see if he was still alive. After all, now if he wanted to commit suicide; he wouldn't have anyone stopping him.
Dazai on the other side, wasn't trying to die desperately anymore. He still tried, but less than before; because he had found other ways to damage his body, the option of avoid eating and drinking if not when he was on the edge of starving was a valid option.
So, it wasn't rare finding his fridge empty because he didn't bought something to eat at the supermarket; that was his editor problem, which lived in the apartment under him. He was the one leaving some food on the other door every now and then, to make sure he had food.
The fifth year flew by, calmly, peacefully without to much pain and suffering for Dazai. He tried to hung himself twice and drown once, far lower than usual; so, it was a good year and, he was slightly more happier. Still though, he couldn't hear anything from the man to which he was sending countless letters from years.
In the sixth year; Dazai became ill. He was walking calmly to his house after a long trip to the places he had stood with his lover when his sight suddenly got confused and his head started to spin. At the start, he didn't really paid to much thoughts to it, he was tired that's what he thought.
Yet; his hands were shaking and he had gotten paler, as his head suddenly became heavier; Dazai found harder to walk more, he was shaking and every part of his body was aching. Maybe; going outside hadn't been a good idea; maybe, this was his chance to die.
He collapsed on the street, breathing fastly than normal as his body was shaking, the poet struggled to remain awake; his sight was getting blurred and getting darker. He noticed strangers approaching him worried for the man and heard the faint sound of an ambulance in the distance.
Fools, he simply wanted to die. To leave the world, this way didn't even needed a suicide, why forcing him to live? But; humans are empathetic creatures, they feel the pain of those near them and they are willing to do everything for the people they love. To make them live on, humans want to live and to make the most out of their lives.
That's why Dazai wasn't human. He couldn't care anymore about making the most out of his existence, he wanted to end it all; to disappear.
But, the universe itself was forcing him to live through all the pain he felt, no matter how despair he was in; universe forced him to keep living. Why though?
He woke up in the hospital, again. The white made his eyes tear up slightly, everything seemed more brilliant than usual and, it pained him because it meant that he was alive.
The nurse entered inside the room, his medical folder was significantly bigger than everyone inside the hospital probably; his trips there was pretty frequent after all.
They said that all his organs had been damaged and that all his bones had been broken at least once. And, the fact that he didn't never cared to much about his body had only worsened his state. He was lacking of sleep, food and water. A lot of things he rarely ever did.
He got dismissed after some days with a lot of advices about taking care of himself. Thing that he wouldn't do either way, Dazai couldn't bring himself to care for his body; it was something that simply wasn't in his skills anymore. Because all of his mind now was filled with thoughts of poetry and literature, of his loved and past. There wasn't space for the necessity of someone that didn't even cared if he was living or not.
In the seventh year from the last time he had heard from his lover, Dazai completely recovered. His body became strong enough to support the highly deteriorating life style of the poet; which it brought endless discomfort for the man.
On a winter day, near the end of the year; Dazai went back to the agency, smiling and wishing merry Christmas for everyone; Akutagawa and Atsushi were partnering even if they were on different factions. And this made him smile, because this had happened because of him and his thoughts.
He saw Ranpo proposing to Poe with the ring the American had brought him, under the tree. It was a good day, something that had so many normality in it that made him smile. Yet, he was an outsider. Dazai wasn't in those businesses anymore; he was a writer and completely detached from the ADA and the Mafia. It made him sadder than usual, he constantly was in a deep feeling of melancholy that grew overwhelming and oppressing from time to time, leading him to a suicide attempt.
Sometimes he couldn't stand the thought of living more, the idea that he was going to grow old, dying alone because everyone else he had loved had left him. Dazai strangely was afraid of death. He didn't wanted to die with anyone by his side, surrounded by the white of an hospital and the mechanical sounds of the machine keeping him alive.
Therefore, he wanted to die or, more specifically, take his own life. He had took so many people lives, why not taking his own as well? Why not stabbing his chest with a long thick knife? Why not taking a bunch of sleeping pills and poison himself? Why not jumping from a building? Getting hit by a truck? Drowning in a river? Simply a single question; why not.
That day; he went to the river where he had found Atsushi starving, where he had saved a life. Dazai stared at the cold water, reflecting darkly the grey sky above him; he didn't took off his coat as he let himself fall in the river; hoping to be killed by the cold water.
In the eighth year; nothing changed. Dazai was continuing to write everyday, the memories of his lover simply not fading away, no matter how hard he tried to move on.
He spectated to Ranpo's and Poe's wedding as well as Atsushi's; Dazai saw a new peace slowly filling Yokohama again and, he thought that maybe, this had happened because he wasn't in neither of the factions anymore.
Maybe, he was the motive for which peace couldn't had been achieved for so long.
Yet, he kept such ugly thoughts in his head, smiling everyday like the shameless liar he had always been.
In the ninth year; Dazai Osamu got in a car accident. Maybe, it had been planned for him by Mori and the Mafia; maybe it was because he was drunk, desperate and willing to die in that way. In the accident, Dazai hurtled his head quite badly, making him fall unconscious as the car he was in burned like the fires of Hell.
Waking up, he didn't remembered his name, nor his past. The doctors said that his memories were gone, that he should've make a fresh start, to wait and that his past would have slowly come at him. Dazai blankly stared at them as they explained, not knowing why he wasn't caring for the explanations; because,maybe this was the best for him after all, to forget.
Still, even if he wasn't able to remember his own name; Dazai knew and remembered that he loved someone. He didn't remembered his face, not his voice or the time they had spent together yet, his heart aches whenever a place or an object full of his deleted memories of his lover appeared.
And Dazai kept loving the man that now had no face, voice or memories.
He went back to his apartment, the editor was a stranger, he was his neighbor that from time to time left food for him. But, what were they before? Did something happened between them? Why couldn't he remember, it was painful, to know that a person maybe knew more about you than you about them.
Walking down the streets his heart would clench as he noticed a married gay couple with an adopted child happily solving a police case; he would feel bad when he noticed a boy with black hairs and white tips staring at the sea melancholic about something. Who were they? Did he knew them? Because it felt as if he had already knew them, everyday there were thoughts in the corner of his mind, endlessly floating and disappearing everytime he tried to reach them.
In the tenth and eleventh year Dazai memories didn't came back. Nevertheless he loved him, every part of his body and mind was always for the same person, he wrote down his ideas on paper, endless letters for an unknown lover.
He got a job as a writer by his neighbor that turned out to be his late editor, and, he was happy about it. Yet, at times, he still felt pain seeing people he was supposed to remember; a teenager with long black hairs surrounded by her other school friends, an elegant woman with pink reddish hairs dating an even more elegant doctor and being happy together… why everyone looked happy, if his heart aches it meant he had already met them, then...was he so useless and unpleasant to have around that now, that he wasn't with them anymore; they were happier?
In the twelfth and thirteenth year Dazai memories still didn't came back, he thought that maybe something was wrong with him, why his past still didn't appeared to him? Maybe his own mind thought that someone worthless like him didn't deserved to remember. Everything he was living felt like a dream, something fake that he wasn't supposed to live. Strangely, the thing that seemed more real was the one the was most... unrealistic.
The only thing he had, that seemed real; Dazai clinged to it, it was everything he had and he was ready to die for it.
In the fourteenth year Dazai still didn't had his memories, he felt hopeless simply not understanding why he still was left alone, wandering in the dark. Was he so worthless? If the person he loved was real, why didn't he wrote him back? Why?
Dazai found himself crying himself to sleep, not understanding the world around him, if he knew that his memories should have already came back then, why didn't them came to him? He wanted to see him for just a second, just a word; just hearing his voice. Even seeing him with someone else would have been enough for him.
In the fifteenth year; Dazai memories came back suddenly, like a punch in his face by his former partner. He recovered his past and fell on his knees near the exit of his apartment, he bursted into tears as he understood everything.
He cried, crystal tears rolling down his cheeks as he couldn't gather enough strength to wipe them away; he stood there, watching the ceiling, crying while staying on his knees. Because it hurtled so much he wished to forget his past again.
Because, he had remembered that the person he loved the most; Oda Sakunosuke had been dead for fifteen years.
He remembered why he started writing, for the purpose of making Oda less alone, to make him feel better in the afterlife with his adopted children. And maybe; maybe he had reached what he was sending to him, an endless pile of poems full of his love and feelings for the man.
Everyday he sent them to the same house, throwing them inside the always open window of his, now empty, apartment.
Because, even if Oda had disappeared, Dazai kept on loving him, he kept on thinking about their memories together and their past, linked with each other.
For the long years in which he couldn't remember, he had always felt as if he could have saw him once again; a glimpse of the happiness he needed. But Oda was gone again, disappeared from him again, leaving Dazai alone again. But it was alright, he would try again, until he would reach Oda and they would live happily together.
"I think I'll miss you forever; like the areas miss the sun in the morning skies" Dazai said with a soft and finally pacific smile.
From sixteen years he is sending letters of pure love to the same person; but nothing had still being heard from the lover yet.