Work Text:
Dazai doesn't know how to live.
He walks through every day, looking for something to make him want to keep going, yet he finds nothing to stop him from ending it all. He could kill himself, but he's a coward. It's like he wants to live, but if he wanted to live, a blade wouldn't be cutting through his skin right now.
He pressed the sharp metal from a pencil sharpener against his hip, and quickly sliced through his skin. The incision went white, before fading into a deep red. Blood dripped down his body and onto his sheets.
The sight of him bleeding made him feel something. It brought him a strange feeling of comfort and relief. A deep wave of thoughts took over his mind, making tears run down the brunette's face without him even realizing.
Why was he even here? His everyday life consists of him watching others, his thoughts narrating a sorrowful story. He watches closely, paying attention to how people act and how they interact with each other. He's there, but it's like he's watching a movie.
Everyone lives seperate lives, apart from Dazai. The thought of people thinking intrigues him in a way, like the mention of thoughts is something completely out of the ordinary.
All he can understand is himself, he'll never be able to comprehend how others view themselves. But how could he? Someone as selfish as him could never understand others.
He picks up the blade, slicing it through his wrist, wincing as it burns deep into him. He watches as blood flows from his wrist, slightly intrigued by someone as inhumane as him could be so real. Pain flows throughout his arm, slowly fading into numbness.
Panic makes it way through his brain, but quickly getting moved away as another thought surfaces. What would people think if they saw him like this? Osamu Dazai, ex-Port Mafia executive, crying as he inflicted pain upon himself.
He imagines people's dissapointment and shameful pity as they look at his mutilated body, covered with old scars layered with fresh cuts and burns. Each scar tells a different lie, the supposed last one before he stops.
Everytime he relapses, he promised himself that it's the last one, even though he knows it won't be the last. He's tried again and again to get better, to heal, but he always goes back to his old habits. A bottle of wine, a cigarette, a razor, or a lighter. It's always something.
If only he was someone else, someone who loved themself. Someone that could look in the mirror and smile. Someone happy and kind. He knew that was an impossible expectation, someone like him could never truly mantain happiness.
Everything about him is what's left over from his old self. He remembers that years ago, he was truly happy. But that's all gone now. His past is only there in memories, so why hope to be like that again.
There's no point to wish for happiness if you know it's not possible.