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an·tith·e·sis
/anˈtiTHəsəs/
noun
- a person or thing that is the direct opposite of someone or something else.
"love is the antithesis of selfishness."
For as long as he can remember, Dazai Osamu has wanted to die. There is no sugarcoating it: every action, every goal, every step forward has been taken with the intention of him eventually removing himself from his pitiful existence. He's never seen a point to it–breathing. Life, from inception, has never been anything more than pain and suffering and brutality and greed and denial.
Humans are complex creatures filled to the brim with nuanced emotions and intent, each fighting day after day to scrape and claw and drag themselves into the future with the barest of hopes of protecting their pathetic existence. And as he watched them, Dazai could never feel anything beyond slight pity and utter bewilderment. Life, to him anyway, has always been more effort than it's worth, and the pros very rarely outweigh the cons. Sure, he's heard that there are positives to living, that warm, fuzzy emotions like joy and serenity and happiness exist–hell, he's maybe experienced them himself once or twice.
However, those emotions have always been fleeting, like the ephemeral caress of an angel in the moments between dreaming and consciousness; they are untouchable, unknowable, and only truly appreciated in absentia.
And if something as trivial as joy is why people continue to incessantly chase after life with ragged breaths and bloody knuckles, then Dazai wants nothing to do with it.
He thought joining the Port Mafia, signing his life away to a demon who'd slithered into the ill-fitting skin of a man, would help him find the answer he was looking for. That bearing witness to the depths of human-made horrors would help him find an answer. To pursue his own personal odyssey, he'd taken action–crossed boundaries–that no sane person should ever cross. But he did so anyway. He didn't know how to stop himself.
How to place value in life.
So engage in depravity he did, deep in the bowels of a glamorous high rise. Down in the hell of his own making, he'd seen a man, stripped of all dignity and teeth, bear his bloody gums, narrow his eyes, and grin while staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. The flames of determination had never faltered within his eyes, yet he ended up nothing more than grey matter splattered on a pockmarked wall.
There were no answers to be found in the viscera.
He'd seen another man stare at him with eyes devoid of life and not a speck of spilled blood, pleading for death. He'd been granted his wish, but not without bloodshed, regardless of the man's pleas. This one was closer to Dazai in a way, yet he was entirely different in the ways that mattered. Dazai hated that this man's absence of will did not match his own. It was an affront to everything he believed in: this man's acquiescence was a learned behavior. It was not the same. As Dazai watched the last of the man's blood drain from his body, he could only feel his own emptiness crescendo in time with the orchestra of the roaring blood in his veins.
Another pointless failure.
It took a long, long time, but Dazai finally gleaned some useful information: in the face of depravity and unrelenting violence, very few truly break. Those that do were already far too damaged to be affected, not truly. Most will inevitably fight with all they have to preserve the pathetic thing they call living, and yet, despite partaking in atrocity after atrocity, Dazai remained without an answer.
Instead, every time he watched the life drain from someone who remained unyielding in the face of death, he grew more perplexed. Why? Why did these people continue to fight in the face of pain and sheer, overwhelming power? What drove them to keep fighting until their dying breath? What about continuing to live was worth the pain? The suffering? And why did this urge–this unbearably human instinct–elude Dazai?
He just. Didn't understand. No. He couldn't understand.
After all, he was simply breathing, while everyone else was living.
So he lost himself to the violence and the brutality, relishing in the thrill of the chase and the power that came from acting as a blade, an executioner. But even that did not last long. It was obvious to those who knew him well enough that it was not true joy, not true psychopathy. That his frenetic energy and utter lack of regard for human decency did not stem from mania-induced sadism. No. He was seeing himself; he was living–dying–vicariously through those he viciously executed.
He was growing desperate. But still, he remained at a loss.
When even unmitigated violence lost its draw, Dazai began to seek out ways to end himself instead. During his time as an executioner, he'd seen enough pain, experienced enough suffering, to know that he wanted his end to be nothing short of serene. He was well aware of just how painful death could be, but he wanted his to be different–death, to him, was an ideal, not something to be feared. Because death was the only thing he had ever truly sought out, he didn't want to associate pain and suffering with what he viewed as true freedom.
As bliss.
As Heaven.
He started small. A cut deep enough to graze bone. Wobbling a bit too close to the edge of a roof hundreds of feet off the ground. Taking one too many pills just to see what would happen.
But it was not real; no, none of these so-called 'suicide attempts' were genuine in the slightest. They were just Dazai's way of testing the waters, dipping his toes in the roaring current to see if he would sink or swim. To see if he could feel even the smallest hint of desperation, of the fervent desire to keep on living. But no. The emptiness always crescendoed in time with his thudding pulse, leaving Dazai feeling hollow like an ancient tree petrified under a perpetually frozen lake.
Yet, despite his lack of answers, his lack of humanity, Dazai could not bring himself to legitimately try. Sure, no one around him actually knew that–their faces whenever he joked about the rope burns around his neck and the blood that seeped through his bandages told him so. Even Mori seemed to believe that Dazai was putting in the utmost effort to die.
And yet, he could not bring himself to do so.
It was not due to something as simplistic, as primal, as fear in the face of Death. No, he knew it was not that. Dazai did not fear death, at least not in the way that everyone else did. He was not afraid of the end. Of the silence. Of the potential for eternal nothingness. No, he was not afraid of something as simple as that.
But he was still drowning in terror.
Because what if? What if it was not what he so desired? What if there was something beyond the pale? What if Death is not truly the end?
He knew that he would collapse under the burden of eternal life, should it exist. In fact, the prospect that anything resembling life could be eternal petrified him. In moments of absentmindedness–when he allowed his mind to drift–he could feel the chilling terror tunneling deep into his sinew and marrow before settling in his tendons and his joints and in between the wrinkles in his brain. It was a heavy sort of fear–one that was utterly irrational, yet it was all he could do to prevent himself from spiralling at the thought that death was not the end.
Or even worse, that once his final breath slithered from his lungs, he'd come to regret living to die.
Because what if? What if it was not all he'd hoped it would be? What if he jumped, and halfway between the sky and the earth, wind whistling in his ears, he understood? What if he had his epiphany when it was much, much too late? What if he learned how to be human, how to be anything more than achingly empty, in the moments that his heart stuttered to a halt?
Would it be worth it?
Is the end truly what he desired?
Or did he yearn for something more?
How would he truly feel in the moments before his heart stopped?
Would he regret it only when his pulse ceased its thundering dirge?
And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? That there was no way for him to know. Not until he got there. Not until he was too far gone. Not until he made a genuine attempt on his own life.
Would he ever reach such a low point? Or would he become human before he ever fell so far?
Well, he was sure that he would know when he got there. And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it would hurt more than anything he's ever done to anyone else. Because his heart, if he truly had one, would surely shatter.
-○●○-
As Odasaku lay bleeding out in Dazai's arms, he felt the overbearing gray surround him, threatening to overtake his senses. Oda-he-he- Odasaku.
Odasaku was-
Odasaku was-he was. Dead.
And he...he had used his final breaths to all but beg Dazai to renounce his ways, to fight for good.
The do-gooding bastard.
Odasaku...
Dazai could feel that the man's heart had long since stopped, but he couldn't bring himself to let go, to stop clutching the man as if he were something precious. He is –was– precious. And now he was dead. Because of Dazai's foolishness. Because of his selfishness. Because of his powerlessness.
The only bastion of light in Dazai's life was dead, and the blood was on Dazai's hands both literally and metaphorically. The man's final wishes, divulged through short gasps of breath and sharp bloody coughs, were nothing but a poignant reminder of the man's goodness. And they were given to Dazai, someone who was so drenched in blood that he could never claim to be anything close to human anymore. Yet Odasaku had spent his final moments pushing for Dazai to be better, trying to assert that Dazai could be human again.
In another life, in another world, Dazai was certain he would have taken Odasaku's words to heart. Could have set down his weapons and begun to fight for good. But in this one, Dazai just. Couldn't.
He was too far gone. Any humanity that may have existed, that may have returned under Odasaku's careful guidance or Chuuya's cautious hands, had absconded with whatever was left of Dazai's fraying sanity. Be on the side of good? Him? He couldn't. Just. It was. Impossible. Antithetical.
The thought that Dazai, with his hands of crimson and his heart of black, could ever even dream of being good was laughable at best and pathetic at worst. The mere thought made him hysterical–manic–as he clutched Odasaku's cooling body close.
And though the fact that Odasaku believed that Dazai could be good gave him pause, Dazai couldn't help but disagree. Couldn't help but feel the ache in his chest where his heart should be. Because even in his final moments, Odasaku had been deluded enough to think that Dazai could regain humanity. It was humorous, in a bittersweet, morose sort of way, because for Dazai to be able to regain his humanity, he would have needed to have been human in the first place.
But just as the product of one hundred and zero is still zero, the chances of a demon regaining something they'd never lost were still null.
Dazai wanted to laugh at the thought, but the idea of laughing as he continued to soak himself in Odasaku's coagulating blood made him feel sick. But, he couldn't find it within himself to move.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed, but finally, after what felt like an eternity, he gently set Odasaku back down on the cold, stained ground. His light was gone, and his glassy eyes held none of the warmth or mirth that Dazai had come to expect. Because he was dead. And it was all Dazai's fault. He had ruined this– ruined him. All in some desperate quest to find a reason for doing anything beyond simply breathing. In his selfishness, he had taken yet another good thing from this world.
Was this all he was good for? Death. Destruction. Despair. Mania. Psychopathy. Rage. Fury. Hopelessness. Sorrow.
All negatives associated with living. All brought about by Dazai.
He couldn't be good.
He didn't know how. He didn't know joy. Know hope. Know kindness. Know light.
And as he stared down at Odasaku's lifeless corpse, at the redredred staining his hands and his clothes and his shoes, Dazai felt something within him shatter.
The grey pressed in from all sides, consuming him in a never-ending fog of despair and darkness. The world had never been very bright before, but now it was a colorless monochrome of greys awash with dull shades that felt as dreary and lifeless as Odasaku's corpse. Absently, he felt a weight lift off his shoulders, and he heard something tumble to the ground. He didn't care to look at what it was.
He stared down at Odasaku, trying to take in as much of his presence as he could before he lifted his head to stare out the windows. He should really be going now. There ought to be men on his tail. No matter, he could elude them easily.
He nodded jerkily to himself before turning on his heel and marching toward the door. Once he reached the threshold, he paused and looked over his shoulder.
"...Goodbye, dear friend. "
And then, he left.
-○●○-
When Mori's men arrived at what remained of the shootout, they were met with two corpses, one gun, and a set of bloody footprints.
Later, they would discover a long black coat with the Boss's name stitched in the lining lying haphazardly beside Oda Sakunosuke's head.
No one dared to inform the Boss of their discovery out of fear of what it meant, and the coat was quickly disposed of in the nearest dumpster.
-○●○-
Less than twenty-four hours later, all eight men who were sent after Dazai were dead, their blood sprayed mercilessly on the pockmarked walls in the dungeons of a glamorous high-rise.
-○●○-
It was late evening, or perhaps it was early morning? It didn't really matter when it was in the grand scheme of things. Just that it was dark. And it was cold.
The icy, salt-stained breeze tore at Dazai's blood-stained shirt and pants. (He'd lost his tie long ago, but where, he couldn't remember.) The breeze, however, was welcome. It was as refreshing as it was chilly; its chill sinking deep into Dazai's open wounds and settling into the niches between his joints.
He was perched atop one of the towers of the Tokyo Bay Bridge, and the view was to die for. He wasn't quite sure how he found himself here–he supposed he must have climbed the support cables–but he wasn't complaining. This was the most lucid he'd been in days ( weeks? ). He plopped himself down, his legs dangling over the edge as he marvelled at just how far from the earth he was.
From here, the cars travelling along the bridge looked like nothing but ants, while the roaring ocean and crashing waves looked like the soft ebb and flow of a gentle creek bed. It was wondrous, for up here, nothing mattered. Not the Port Mafia, not Dazai's own inhumanity, not Odasaku's untimely death, not Mori's all-consuming grip. Nothing. It was just Dazai and the wind.
Peaceful. It was peaceful.
And as peaceful as it was, Dazai could not stop himself from letting his thoughts wander.
He'd never returned to the Port Mafia. He couldn't, not after Mori's decision to let Odasaku die, not after Dazai's insubordination. He was sure that Mori had declared Dazai a traitor by now, and if he knew how long he'd been out of it, he would have some guesses as to how long the manhunt had been going on, but alas, he did not know, nor did he particularly care. Thankfully, he had been lucid enough to prepare a contingency plan of sorts, no matter how half-assed it was. He did distinctly remember blowing both Chuuya's car and Dazai's own shipping crate to bits.
That would protect Chuuya from Mori's wrath, and it came with the added side effect of allowing Dazai to (literally) destroy the quintessential piece of Mori's control. He would no longer have to live in isolation. Would no longer have to live without privacy. Would no longer be relegated to life as a chained animal at the perpetual beck and call of a puppetmaster who controlled him with saccharine words and perverse guardianship.
(If he would have been capable of it, he would have felt amused at the metaphor. He called Chuuya a dog, but only Dazai knew that it was simple projection. Chuuya didn't live in a human-sized crate or have a choke collar situated around his neck. And Chuuya, regardless of a certain God beneath his skin, was the single most human person Dazai had ever met.)
And if Dazai could feel something beyond the yawning emptiness that had nestled itself nicely in the space Odasaku left behind, he was sure he would have laughed at Mori's expense. The Port Mafia was sure to be searching relentlessly for him, yet he knew they would never be able to find him. It should have made him feel smug, made him feel like he had won–made him feel amazing now that he was finally free of the monster's grasp. Even a few days (weeks?) ago, he would have been able to feel a flicker of something, of feigned joy or sadistic glee, but now there was nothing.
(Mori had finally succeeded. Dazai was finally nothing but an empty husk, a hollow, unfeeling porcelain doll. But it was too late. Much, much too late. Dazai's strings had already been cut, and now he was nothing but an abandoned puppet collapsed upon the stage, but the curtains had not been drawn, and the puppetmaster was still waiting in the wings. The show must go on. And there's only one more act.)
He wouldn't be returning to the Port Mafia, nor would he be returning to Chuuya. Chuuya may have been gruff, rough around the edges, and short-tempered, but he was also relentlessly kind and unbearably caring. He was the only light left in Dazai's life–was the only person left who was convinced of Dazai's nonexistent humanity. He was sure that if he'd asked, Chuuya would have left with him, would have followed Dazai into the Abyss. But Dazai couldn't do that to him. Couldn't ask that of him.
So he did the only thing he could think of, and betrayed him. At Dazai's betrayal, Chuuya was sure to be enraged (and hurt. Oh God, how Dazai must have hurt Chuuya. His heart ached at the thought, but he squashed it down. He desperately ignored the perplexing pang of yearning that jolted through his heart at the image of Chuuya's face, overwritten with the sorrow and fury that no doubt graced his face when he'd discovered the bomb. When Chuuya must have realized that Dazai was gone for good.) Actually, Dazai was more than certain that Chuuya was enraged, given he'd had over a hundred missed calls and more than two hundred texts by the time his cell phone had died.
But it was no matter.
Chuuya was fierce and resilient. He would move on. It was better this way, better that they would never see each other again. For a moment, he was thankful that their friendship had never officially progressed much further, though he knew that Chuuya had been waiting for him.
It seems that Chuuya would be forever waiting for him.
Because as much as Dazai wanted to lash out in revenge against Mori and the rest of the Port Mafia, he could not find it within himself to muster the energy. The emptiness intrinsic to his being called to him, and finally, after years of toeing the line, he was ready.
Ready to make his final choice, ready to see if he would have a final epiphany or if he would find vindication. Would he finally find a reason to live as he fell to his doom? Or would he feel nothing but a sense of closure?
After all, his existence was antithetical to living. Others breathed in order to live, to see another day. He lived to breathe, each exhale one step closer to giving in and giving up. He had never had the fire within him–the kind that made you scream and claw and fight to take another breath, live a little longer, a little more.
And living to die was surely no life at all.
Dazai let out a shaky breath and flicked his eyes over to the shiny, towering high rises within Yokohama. While they were tall, he was sure that his perch atop the suspension bridge was taller. But, it was funny, he thought, that he would take his final breaths well within view of the home of both the person who had destroyed him and the person who was capable of saving him.
He almost wondered if he would be visible from the towers. If Mori would stand at his window and see Dazai plunging toward the water. If Chuuya was stress smoking a cigarette on the roof at the exact moment Dazai left this pitiful realm of existence. But he didn't. Wonder, I mean.
It would be pointless.
He shouldn't spend his precious time so unwisely. Thinking about something that was simply impossible was not only a fruitless endeavor, but would also only delay the inevitable.
It was time. And he hoped that it would happen so quickly that it would be painless. But he supposed that a little pain was worth it to test his theory, to finally find an answer to his question.
He let out another breath, this one calm and measured. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes to take in the sea-drenched air and the sound of the whistling wind. To absorb the gentle, dewy rays of the full moon. To settle his racing heart. When he opened them again, he felt a bone-deep sense of peace wash over him. For once, the blood wasn't rushing in his ears, his skin didn't scream at him to slash at it, and his thoughts weren't overflowing with unanswered questions.
He settled his gaze back out over the cityscape to take in the view for the last time, and for a second, he was sure that he saw a familiar crimson glow emanating from a speck atop the roof of the Port Mafia's towers. But as quickly as it appeared, it dissipated. Dazai dismissed it–his mind was playing tricks on him again. Even though he was the most lucid he'd been since Odasaku's death, it would not stop his grief-addled mind from showing him one of the only things he'd wanted to see one last time. Perhaps he should be thankful that his mind showed him the comforting crimson–it felt a bit like closure. A reminder as to why he needed to go.
He couldn't protect Odasaku, but he could protect Chuuya. It would be his one and only act of goodness. An ode to Odasaku's final wishes. He smiled a bit to himself at the thought.
Then, his grip on the ledge tightened, and he pressed his feet flat against the metal support. He leaned over, glancing down at the water below before righting himself. He looked up and gazed longingly at the moon one final time. After a few beats, he let out a breath tinged with regret and pain and sorrow, and for the first time in his life, allowed himself to inhale relief and hope. He smiled, and it was a tiny, fragile little thing. It was real. It would be his last. He pressed his fingers into the metal, gripping it firmly–
And.
Pushed.
Off.