Chrysanthemum Garden [Dazai x Reader] ✓

18. Heaven or Hell

Silence.

No muffled sounds were concealed in the waves of the foreign water. No struggle either as our feet found themselves unable to touch the bottom of the shore – but I clung tighter to the hand that held mine. It was dry.

Is this the afterlife, Dazai? Did we make it?

The peaceful silence did not last for long, however, when the distinct sounds of footsteps hurried in my direction; an angel from heaven perhaps, or the Devil in Hell – whichever one let us in – but my eyelids were far too heavy to be pulled apart to acknowledge the divine or else blasphemous being before me.

'Take this, [Y/N],' the soft voice demanded, following a couple of gentle taps on my shoulder.

I attempted (and succeeded) to pull my eyelids apart – one eye covered again – and saw the brightness of the world above me through a blurred frame. This must be heaven, surely, for how bright and clear the white colour above is...

My back was comfortably lying against a surface far softer than the mattress of pebbles and rocks at the waterfront, and judging by the contrasting beam of light between this and the festival's night, it was no longer the same day since Dazai and I had walked out into the water embracing death.

This has to be heaven... It's far too bright to be any other place.

Tilting my head down, I observed my hand which held another tightly by my side, and by the recognition of the black fabric enveloping the skin, I figured that this was not Dazai. I couldn't bring myself to look up at however this unwanted hand belonged to, so I cast my eye in the opposite direction of the guest and acquainted myself with my surroundings:

Like my basement room once, a white blanket mantled me with lost hope, welcoming death – a hospital setting, it seemed – and the basic and dull palette surrounding me looked like it belonged to a newsreel cinematic of the life of a patient subjected to the medical field.

'... Where is... where –'

The hoarse sound of my voice scratching against itself in my throat abruptly interrupted the agonising knot tightening around it; I leaned to the side and let out a series of dry coughs, letting go of the black-gloved hand to grasp at the sheets beneath me so that I could support the weight of my torso and the stitch triggered at my ribs to pull myself into a sitting position.

A glass of water was offered for me and I accepted it hesitantly, doubting this could have more than just the said liquid (it was a common prank – curse – to become a victim of extra substances mixed in water), but my throat demanded a drink and obliged me to take it. A couple of sips were enough to moisten my throat for minimal speech, and once swallowed, I brought the half-empty glass of water to my lap, watching the liquid swirling erratic patterns on the surface to reflect the shaking of my hands.

It was then that I noticed that the obijime that I had tightened around my wrist the previous night was missing, and as its replacement was the plaited pattern on my skin, distinct dents dug into the flesh as I traced my finger over it with peculiarity.

We were supposed to drown together... So then, why am I alone...?

Indecipherable words were being pronounced around me, and the glass of water was taken from my possession and slapped down on a plain surface beside me; my mind was not with the scene, but instead dwelling on the occurrences of the previous night... I was supposed to die.
.
.
.
"What happens when we die?" I whispered hesitantly, oblivious to how loud I'd actually been when addressing the white-coat figure that sat on the outer side of the cage; he turned to look at me and furrowed his eyebrows in thought before letting out a silent scoff.