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The walls were white, pure, freshly installed- a specter for the eyes; a symbol of innocence and devotion, to what?
The lord?
Love?
Life?
All utterly stupid and passing worships, how the walls stared back at Dazai like a taunt, but he knew, it appeared so perfect- an untouched surface, but with dust already collecting, sullying, human interaction would only speed that process of descending into sin, not stop, nothing could stop the inevitable.
Temptation.
.
.
.
Dazai was prone to temptation, his hands aching to ruin the clean slate, his dirty red hands envisioning the act of smearing the white paint to cover up the former color, the sentiment of his choices being covered so utterly tempting, an apple in the garden of Eden that he was told not to eat- his hands; the serpent, his mind, luring him into a trance.
He felt judged without committing the act, he felt the white paint on his hands, smelled it, felt the lingering guilt of a wrongdoing. Dazai did feel guilt after all, just not whilst committing; After. When he realizes his own actions as their true form.
He knew his thoughts reflected him like a mirror couldn’t, the thoughts dragging him deeper into this pit of hell, showing his the vaguest idea of heaven before consuming him in the cycle of samsara, reliving, revisiting, repeating.
The walls glared at him, he knew they knew his desires, destructive if followed, destroying him slowly if not.
Dazai wanted help. He wanted a lot, freedom, love, sex, worship, nirvana, heaven, peace. He said he wanted death like a prayer, but honest to himself, he just wanted the ending, he wanted something to stop his damnation to roam the earth without truly understanding the purpose, maybe he was horrid in a past life, this being his karma for such acts, and when he dies he has to live it again, the lord knows he didn’t change in this life either.
Then he was back again; to the walls, white was a color he hated. It suited him so well yet fit him so loosely, thoughts of the color running through his head as he connected himself to the color, anything but a human.
Sex, vomit, pain, love, release, release, release-
.
.
.
He felt more and less connected to red; the color of his eyes, Moris scarf, his arms- stripped of recognition to anything flesh like, just mounds upon mounds of his own doing, his nakedness in front of the wall, the purest version of himself.
Everything he considered tied back to one result; he wasn’t human, people sinned with remorse. He felt guilt, but only because he knew what he did was wrong what he was doing, he didn’t care about what it caused.
Humans sinned because they had wants, Dazai sinned because derived pleasure from the control; people who breathed in sin like oxygen, weren’t human, just masquerading.
Dazai reached out to touch the white walls, the paint smearing onto his hands, he saw the red on the wall, dripping down, his past screaming down like a rapid river, staining the white walls, the white floors, and his pale white skin.
Passers by just walked, unbothered by the tainted purity, bashing him, grating, taunting, chiding- He ruined it, took its innocence from it, it wasn’t welcomed when pure, he hated its flaws.
Maybe he was ruined, but he knew he’d never be pure again.