Work Text:
Dazai was the devil in human form.
His heart didn't beat.
His breath didn't form a coil around his lungs to be released. No, the only thing that was released from him was pure hatred.
His brown hair formed a set of wings around his shoulders as it fell, smooth and glossy, effortlessly. To be human was to be imperfect, but Dazai was perfect. He was effortlessly pretty like an angel,
one who struck fear into the hearts of sinners. It didn't take long to realize the being wasn't human at all. He may look human, he may sound human, and he may even act human, but his spirit was
in hell, and he wore his chain like a nuse around his neck.
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The light above him buzzed and flickered before going out dully. The space had already been dark, but now, sitting here on this hard stool, he couldn't even see three feet in front of himself. His body
ached as dully as the light, and he made no effort to get up. He had been in that position all night, and now, in the early hours of the morning, he couldn't force himself to get up.
He boredly stared as far as his eye could make out to his desk, where he knew an empty flask of vodka lay. He had no business getting drunk before work, but he also couldn't care any less than he did in that moment.
His heart beat barely thumped against his chest, and it felt as if the world had shrunk to just him, just this moment of pure misery. His head throbbed with a passion, and his legs cramped, still, he made no effort to get up. To him it didnt matter if the shipping container he sat in caught fire; nothing could get him to move from his spot, calm and serene.
Nothing, except pain.
Beautiful, star struking pain. He had no energy to get up and cut himself; he had no willpower to do anything at all except to fall lazily to the side till the stool tipped over, and with it he fell down to the hard ground with a loud thump.
The sudden noise was more of an attack than the blinding pain he felt in his right shoulder, which came not even a full moment later. His shoulder throbbed at the same rate that his head did, but Dazai was so detached that he didn't even care. Couldn't care about something so insignificant and small.
Time passed, and he lay there unmoving, unthinking, just taking it all in. There wasn't much he could make out in the dark, but as time moved forward, so did the light, and his clock read 7:43 am. A time that meant nothing to the brunette, a time that should have meant everything.
He had work in 17 minutes, it didn't matter though, nothing did when he got into what Mori would call an “episode,” such as this one. If anyone saw him like this, they would deem him as lazy, but it was more than that. It was the complete mixture of being so underwhelmed he couldnt function, and being so overwhelmed he couldn't think.
It was burnout at its finest and most damaging.
At least he didn't have the motivation to commit suicide, Mori would just humiliatingly bring him back piece by piece, stitch him back together to create a ragdoll of brokenness.
It was times like these where all Dazai could think is how he wished he could do something, anything, but it was like being paralyzied. He was stuck in his own head, wallowing in his own selfhatred so intensely that he no longer felt like he was existing in reality, but rather some subliminal space of nothingness.
Some people wish to not feel pain or to be numb, what Dazai doesn't think they realize is that to get to that point, you have to experience so much negative emotion that your brain physically can't handle it anymore, you can't process anything so the world just passes you by.
And it's not voluntary, it's not a switch that can be metaphorically switched on and off as you please, but rather something more akin to a rattlesnake, striking with little warning. Its venom sinks into you quickly, and then you slow down, you can’t focus, you can't think, you can't do much of anything.
All you can do is lie there and accept defeat, and sure, maybe you can get help, but it takes a piece of yourself with it. It takes and it takes and it takes and it never will be the same again.
Dazai is no stranger to snakes, growing up in the mafia has taught him always to be cautious, that is if you care about your well-being.
Dazai is not somebody who does, so he gets bit over and over again, never learning his lesson, because it doesn't matter how smart you are, you can't fight depression with violence. You can't win a battle against a snake with your mind alone.
So it consumes him, and he lets it eat him whole.
No longer even putting up a fight against it. And how could he? He is unprepared, regardless of how many times he fights this same battle, he loses. He loses not because he dies, but because he doesn't recover, each time coming out less and less of himself, and he never gets those missing pieces back.
Nothing exists. This space is empty, and he is sure he’s died. He knows he has, because he's suddenly in so much pain that death is the only excuse, the only exsplination for how hes feeling in this moment.
He grunts as he roles over to his back, his shoulder protest and hes not sure that he hasnt dislocated it, still it doesnt matter.
Nothing matters.
The boy stares at the light bulb above that went out hours ago now. He’ll probably never replace it, instead choosing to live in the shadows of his cramped space. Choosing to make himself more miserable.
He need it. He craves depression like humans crave oxygen. He hangs on tight to it and hopes it never lets him go, he hangs on so tight that he hopes his hands spaz open and he falls to his dealth.
Either way he cant procceive his own idea of happiness, he doesnt even know where to start, so hes made himself comfortble in the hands of sinners and the mouths of snakes, for its all he’s got.
For the first time in hours the young man looks away from whats directly infront of him and finds a bottle of pills.
Should he get high, or go to work?
Neither for now, he instead just continues to lay there, empty and void of any thing at all.
When his head is swiming in the oblivion that is his body, he hears a ringing noise. At first the brunnete cant distingush idf its in his head or real. After all nothing has any substance to it, any weight at all.
When it goes away ad comes back three more times, Dazai has come to the conslusion that its real, he also still cant get himself to care however so he lets it ring. Unable to muster up the energy to even turn it off.
Minutes pass without call, and Dazai feels himself sinking, he feels his heart being torn apart and his chest exsploding with an uncomfortable sensation not unlike the need to sob.
But he doesnt, he cant. He cant do anything no matter how desprite he is or is not to do it. So he doesnt move and hopes nothing comes of it, he cant face anybody right now, and he doesnt know who was calling him.
Looking at the clock that now reads 8:57 am he knows he’s late for work, but he also has no intions of going in the first place so he lets that thought roll of off him.
He was rotting on the floor and he didnt care. He thinks hed like to be dead, but he cant even get himself to want that right now, he cant want anything so he just continues to exist on the floor.
Existence, life as an imposter, it is him who deseives the most. It is he who doesnt deserve fufilment, it is him who cant even be deemed as human anymore. He hears a fly buzzing in the distence of his shipping container, still he does nothing at all.
He never dose anything, because detachment controls him, and he is just a passenger in his body. He is not in control of anything around him no matter what it might look like. Good days come at
him on a whim and the bad days follow without pattern.
How does one reclaim their humanity when it is something they hadnt even noticed went missing? How do you improve when your not in control of ypur own life?
Dazai hated himself then, the only emotion he was ever capable of in these moments, hatred. He knew then that he’d do anything to end his suffering, as long as he could find thr motivation for even that.
His day was uneventful, he had to pee pretty bad despite not drinking any liquids, but he couldnt get up, he couldnt get up so he held it and likley gave himself an infection.
What did it matter though, if he was dead then the maggots could eat at him and he wouldnt feel a thing.
The next day came and still Dazai lay, unmoving and unresponsive; it was like being in a coma.
On the third day he knew he had a serious problem.
Now knowing he had to get out of this slump or he would die on his floor with nobody coming to check on him, he sat up. It was a painfuly slow proccess, and his bladder was so full he had to genuenly struggle not to piss himself. He had to maintain some dignity after all. His shoulder still hurt and his headache had worsened with three days without food or water.
Getting up was a fight, one he wasnt sure he wouldnt lose, but he fought and he stood up painstakingly slow.
Then he took his first step, and another, and it felt like he was floating, he went outside and took a piss and then colapsed next to his own urine. He hurt everywhere, nowhere was safe from bruising, and the summer sun was relentless on his back even through his white tee.
The seventen year old stood up for the second time in three days and made his way back inside to his ‘home.’ It didnt matter how cold the building seemed or how many aminitys it lacked like a shower or stove, because he didnt need anything to survive. He could survive anything, and newly giddy he shut the door and smiled, hurting his face mussels.
The teen sat down and was overwhelmed with feelings of lightheadness, and the pain of his shoulder had yet to subside.
Still he smiled.
The world was a wonderful place, and he was so glad to be alive. Checking his clock is was 4:34 pm, and he had work to do.