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No one had ever asked him why he wanted to die.
In all of the 22 years he’d been forced to breathe, no one had ever asked him why he didn’t want to.
What would he have told them, anyway?
Dazai had always lived a very peculiar life; for as long as he could remember, the idea that he was a living, breathing human being with needs such as nourishment, shelter, and love was as foreign to him as ancient esoteric glyphs.
As a child, he didn’t understand why he’d been forced to exist.
He’d see other children walk the streets of Yokohama with mothers, fathers, caretakers of all sorts. He didn’t envy them or their loving families or the beds they slept in each night. He was never jealous of their surely comfortable, meaningful lives. He simply anguished over the fact that he had to exist alongside them.
That anguish turned to resentment as he aged.
By 13 he began stealing, listening into private conversations, taunting large and mysterious men in the dead of night, partaking in essentially any and every type of risky behaviour he thought might get him killed.
By 15 he was working as a low ranked member of the Port Mafia.
By 18 he’d risen to be the youngest Executive in the Mafia’s history, having killed so many men he’d lost count; ironically, his desire to die had backfired spectacularly and blown up right in his face.
And so he decided to do it himself.
He’d made so many attempts, he could easily write a book. Hanging. Drowning. Overdosing on drugs, alcohol, and even both together. Slicing his skin open until he couldn’t lift a finger and was certain his blood would flow until his unfortunate heart finally stopped.
It kept beating.
He’d always be saved, somehow, right at the moment he thought he’d be released from the unbearable heaviness of being alive. And the heaviness never lifted, never lessened.
Even in times that he should logically, by all human standards, be happy and comfortable and grateful to be alive. Even on days when the whole Agency laughs at his clowning, on days that he manages to very properly ruin Kunikida’s schedule, on days that Atsushi smiles at him, relaxed and free of the shackles trapping him in his past.
Dazai always felt the weight of his cursed life crushing his lungs, restricting his breathing and teasing him with the taste of death but never allowing him to die.
Could he give a reason? Could he even begin to explain his constant agony to those who would fight tirelessly for their lives?
His peers, his friends, would toss their heads back with laughter at the number of Dazai’s failed attempts. Chuuya had always wished him luck, telling him to die as soon as he could. Kunikida threatened to kill Dazai himself the next time he interfered with a plan.
It had been such a long running joke that he couldn’t possibly imagine how they’d react upon learning he’d finally succeeded. He wasn’t sure if he should feel giddy or guilty when thinking of their faces. Would they laugh at first? Of course they would. But what next? He’d never get to find out, but some details just aren’t important in the grand scheme of things.
No one had ever asked him why he wanted to die.
He was glad at least that he’d never be around to face the question; what would he have told them, anyway?