Chrysanthemum Garden [Dazai x Reader] ✓

3. Why?

It was past midday by the time papers were settled and minds clear of my appearance that I was sitting with three of these detectives in a cafe just below. The white-haired boy, Atsushi (he had to remind me of his name), sat across from me on the table that had its wooden top tattooed with markings of anxious nails and a stapled pile of papers by his hands.

Beside him sat the girl whose features I was still dubious about holding a place in my memory, and her eyes were trained on the papers just as Atsushi's were.

Dazai had initially sat up straight beside me, but he was now found bent over the table in a slacking manner that suggested he would have rather be anywhere else but here; it didn't help that he was complaining about being denied a hot meal, but when I offered to return the wallet so he'd pay for it, his eyes avidly lightened up and he smiled it off, excusing himself to the waitress that he wasn't as hungry as he thought he was. His belly rumbled.

I couldn't afford a meal either, but the maid must've felt bad as I watched her place mellow cups of coffee on the table for Atsushi and Kyouka that she couldn't deny serving me one for free.

But I wasn't here to enjoy a meal or coffee; I was here because I was to be questioned on all arson cases they believed I was responsible for (fires that mysteriously started with no trigger warning or alarm rung before death lurked), and it was then I remembered why I'd initially walked out of the Port Mafia's headquarters that morning... I was asked to burn a corporate building for Mother... I have to go -

'[Y/N], sit.' - I obeyed Dazai's command.

Hesitantly, Atsushi rotated the papers he'd been looking at and pushed the pile my way; with each new page I flipped, the cases got older and older, dating from the most recent aftermath of a fire to the very first ones I'd been forced into starting at the age of fifteen in the heart Yokohama alone. Under each date was an address and picture decorating it, along with statistics of how many people had been wounded in the act and how many saw fire as their killer.

A criminal looking down at their criminal file...

'Do they look familiar?' I hesitated before nodding to whoever had asked the question - I couldn't tell voices apart from the fog of guilt that filled my mind, and the screams of despair these pictures carried in them overtook my hearing.

On the last page, the screams stopped.

Silence.

A memory I couldn't remember.

The diagram of a large building was drawn below the name of an unfamiliar hospital, the date marking a couple of days before my birthday, but the same year, and a toll of death that my existence on earth did not deserve to boast about.

Despicable nostalgia danced across this page, as if my soul had left my body that day to sit and watch this once tall medical battleground slowly burn into ashes by a revolted, corrupted Hestia.

This is what my ignominious birth had done... I killed people who sought treatment for their wounds and illnesses... I should've died too...

But dying wasn't part of my agenda, it seemed... my bottle of the inhaled compound (chloroform) seemed to be secretly cherished by my subconscious and neglected the long-term side effects it ought to give me, and no matter how much I tried overdosing its use, the most it had caused me at times had been nausea and vomiting, drowsiness of a couple of days and the inability to stand still without falling for hours.

Dying wasn't an option for me despite my cravings for it...

'Let's forget about that one for now,' spoke the voice of the male beside me with a glum tone present in it, and his hand slid towards the papers to have it flipped to the first page again. 'These are all the cases we think you're responsible for, and all we need you to do is confirm it. Then we can take things from there, okay?'