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Atsushi is always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Each mistake, each failure is another heavy weight to his shoulders. He catalogues every time Kunikida yells at him, every time Dazai has to cover for him, every time Ranpo or Yosano give him a disappointed stare, every time Tanizaki smiles awkwardly and tries to leave. He does it because it’s important; next time (if he’s even allowed to stay, then. Who knows how badly he’ll fuck up), he can count the amount it takes to push them over the edge, to hate him. And in his darker moments, he’s sure they do — because who wouldn’t, when faced with someone like him?
It is no secret that Atsushi hates himself, anyway. As much as he doesn’t mention it, it plagues his every waking hour. The headmasters voice ringing in his ears, overlapping with the staff, the other children, his own — they all say one thing: you are worthless. The mere idea that he is otherwise would be to go against his reality itself.
Despite this, Atsushi doesn’t self-harm. To be doing so would be to deny his privilege; as someone who doesn’t deserve to live, to have a healthy, working body was a blessing (or, perhaps, a curse — but to think like that wouldn’t do him much good). He should be grateful, not sully it with his own misdoings and self-pity. Even when the urge is strong — to punish himself when no one else does — he does not give into it. Because he is supposed to be better. He is lucky and he is cruel and he has to fight the evil within himself and outside it for his own worth. He knows he is selfish, but besides the inherent self loathing he feels at the mere notion of doing anything for his own gain or against other people, he finds he does not care. He wants to be selfish — he wants the sharp blade to pierce against his bare skin, he aches for to feel the cold metal be covered in hot blood and let it stain the floor, the weapon, his clothes, him — but he knows better. Everyone in the agency has their own problems, own traumatizing past, and the notion that he could ever compare himself to them… it’s just wrong.
“You’re allowed to be selfish, Atsushi,” Dazai had said kindly, once, sleeves lifting from the wind to reveal clean, white bandages. Atsushi wondered if Dazai left marks on himself, too. He couldn’t even begin to decipher the man, let alone what could phase him (and Atsushi doesn’t want to, because he’s uncaring and arrogant and only thinks about his own comfort, and destroying his good image of Dazai would be akin to a whip to the face). The man had always cried about hating pain, hating torture inflicted on himself — did the bandages need come from that? Did he have scars that he was ashamed to show the world? That he was ashamed Yosano couldn’t heal? Or was it a statement, a convoluted yet important choice that only a brain like Dazai’s or Ranpo’s could understand?
Atsushi found comfort in the man, of course. And it wouldn’t do well to wonder about Dazai’s personal life. It seemed like a breach of trust, even in his own head. But if his mentor could live so brazenly, could show his bandages without getting asked or judged, then maybe it wouldn’t be weird for him to do it, too.
He lets those thoughts in as he’s buying groceries. Lets them ruminate in his mind, a constant presence; even after he greets Kyouka, a sunny smile on his face, and cooks them both dinner — even after he tells her goodnight, going to wash up before joining her, the thought is there. And alone like this in the bathroom, a razor trembling in his hand, a kitchen knife only steps away, the thought swells. Swells and swells until he can think of nothing else but it and the pounding headache it is causing.
And Atsushi — Atsushi has never been worth anything. That is a fact, a blank slate, an undeniable thing. But looking at himself in the mirror, all his blemishes and choppy haircut and chapped lips and sunken eyes, he wonders what he did do deserve a title like beast or scum or monster. But the thought slips away quickly, leaving only the open wounds and half-healed scars.
Memories slam into him like a wave, crashing and crashing repeatedly on his shore, and he can't take it anymore. The ocean is vast and loud and he just wants to get away. But he's drawn to it — drawn to the way it hums, even when the murky water blinds him to the blue sky.
A slap to the face. Tugging of hair. Pulling on limbs. Burning ribs. Burning lungs. Drowning slowly, fingers bleeding from the useless fight, scraping against wood and splintering. Starving, hunger pangs growing stronger and stronger the longer he’s left in the cage. He will beg, he will plead, he will grovel for the most useless things like a dog. Like a mutt, they said, young and weak and not able to even follow direct orders. He is stupid. He doesn’t deserve what they’re giving him.
He hates it. He hates them. He hates himself.
It would be better for him to just die in a ditch somewhere —
He gasps. Red, bright against the hard floor, looks back up at him.
The razor shakes in his grip as he snaps out of his trance. The drip, drip of liquid hitting the floor is too piercing to be anything but reality.
He looks at his arms. A jagged red line, dripping down his forearm, wild-looking enough that it could be an accident if it weren’t for the length. His thoughts that were swirling like dirty water are suddenly clearing as if he pulled the plug on them — and Atsushi can see, think clearly. Yes, this is familiar. This is good.
Methodically, Atsushi grabs the bandages. Yosano once gave him a lecture on how to treat wounds properly, and he tries to remember as best he can. Ending up with light bandages covering the expanse, he sets to cleaning the floor and counter, throwing the razor in the trash. He never used it anyway.
Kyouka is already asleep when he shuffles past her into the closet. He follows her into slumber, not dreaming about anything but fleeting tears that flow and flow until he's gone.