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His fist connects and it hurts. It stings, it burns. His knuckles aren’t wrapped, no padding, just skin, bone, flesh against flesh. Every hit wears him, tears him, bloodies him . . . but it hurts Dazai more. The mastermind, the puppeteer, strung up upon his own strings now, so defenseless. Akutagawa makes every hit count. He leans into each punch, shifts his hips, and puts feeling into his swings. His arm snaps. And snaps. And snaps. He feels the skin split but he doesn’t stop. In a moment he’s overwhelmed by pure, unadulterated rage, hatred, anger, regret, sadness, disappointment.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!
Blood trickles down his hand, dripping to the floor.
In a flash the bout of enthusiasm fades. The adrenaline leaves him. Akutagawa straightens out his coat and departs without another word, Dazai left beaten and bruised, chained and abandoned, to be picked apart by Chuuya at a later hour.
An easy target, perhaps too easy.
Akutagawa takes the stairs two at a time, desperation in every step. Emotions boil in his chest, brewing, brewing then spilling over. He spits up blood in the hallway. His heart pounds in his ears and the idea of Dazai hearing, knowing , and feeling so satisfied with himself – he wants to strangle the life out of that bastard. He wants to watch the light fade from his eyes, wants to choke every last breath until his face is blue, wants to . . . to kill him! Akutagawa tells himself he would if he had the opportunity, without fault, without hesitation, all he needed was the chance, the excuse , really. Then he’d put an end to Dazai's pitiful existence with his own hands.
And yet . . . the longer he thinks about it, the worse it gets. Bile settles uncomfortably in the back of his throat. Tears prick the edge of his eyes.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck — fuck!
Nothing in his path is safe. Objects, people, whatever there may be they're all thrown aside, tossed to the ground, stomped on and discarded. Anger pulses through his veins, burns in his heart, scorns his very soul. It scars, it mars, it hurts. He turns the corner and blood comes up, tears mixed with crimson.
There's nothing left to be done.