𝐇(𝐀)𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 | yandere! dazai osamu

A SOFT EPILOGUE / A.N

In retrospect, the strenuous effort of the human race should be applauded. Man wakes up and struggles through life knowing that the futility of it all is Sisyphus reincarnated. If one day, all humans were to be wiped out, the Earth would still keep on turning, the animals unruly, the thick green vegetation flourishing without the worries of incentives and profits. It is said that if all of humanity were to disappear, it would take up to 10,000 years for all traces of our existence to disappear. Cities buried under, tunnels filled up into mountains, subway stations left abandoned. How fascinating it is, to know that we are all so delicate and ephemeral, but still choosing to exist.

Dazai knows this.

The house that he had died in has now been completely swathed in ivy, bushes, and ferns—the house itself was rotting, falling apart, yet a very suitable location for teenagers seeking to find refuge from dictator-parents, drug-addicts to find solace away from the peering eye, adults to prove if life after death was a viable option. The house remains standing, open-armed, and unconquerable.

Some people say that they can see a woman staring down at them from the windows upstairs of the house. Some can hear cries of pain, but others argue it's of pleasure. A sign of an animal seeking mercy from the starving predator above them.

Sometimes they can hear footsteps. Delicate ones, followed by more confident ones. Sometimes they can hear whispers, undecipherable but intimate, in the corner of their ears, hooking onto the deepest curve of their cochlea before simply fading into the wind. Some can see reflections of bathroom mirrors, their phones betraying their eyes, before seemingly finding their place underneath the wallpaper.

The ghosts of the house at the end of the street are not angry. They seem at peace, many think. As if the horrors before had died down. Sometimes they comment on how dark the wood was under the broken chandelier as if something had been burnt clean through.

No one but you had deciphered the mystical puzzle of this house. The tragedy of your death and subsequent submission to Dazai was a private pain shared only to him. Dazai...could you fault him for being so greedy? Why should people start admiring and pity you after death? No, he was the only one that you needed, the only one you wanted. You look at him like his face fades from fear, like a bird taking flight into the day, away from the chasing winds of night, before landing into the soft plumage of the nest.

It is the way that you have thought you were unlovable because of the thing you were so desperately keen on praying away, and then finding someone who loves you—not regardless of the thing, but because of it. Could you have understood the depth of his pain, the seemingly archaeological dig to his madness, the reason and cogs behind his doings, had it not been for your brain soaked in mental ailments? Dazai sees you, truly sees you, and loves you wholly—so much in fact, that many visitors seemed to share the sentiment that the sudden burst of warmth in a room was followed by the complete extinguishment of light.

Dazai is in love with you, the secret of the house, the final Bride of Bluebeards, the Bride he truly loves, not a fantasy or a creature of his own making.

How strange it is, to be together until death with your loved one had brought him more joy than he had ever felt in the short years of his living.

—

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello. :)

I wrote this book back in 2019. I was 16 years old at that time. I genuinely thought I would finally muster up the courage to kill myself before I turned 18. I think that in it itself has given me a bigger insight into this book.

Initially, I had planned for the reader to hang herself in the house after Dazai guilt trips/manipulates her into believing no one truly cared about her, before following her to the death. The entire idea of the haunted house back then was that the House was actually a normal house--it was just plagued with the physical manifestations of the reader's guilt, hurt, and untreated depression.

I get this question a lot: Well, why can't reader just sit still or run? Get out, even?

And I found an answer to that, 2 years later: after thinking back, I realized that when I was at the very rock-bottom of my depression, truly contemplating and going on to commit suicide and failing multiple times, there was nothing in this world that scared me because even if things were haunted, I would still die. So why should I be afraid? I was the only one I should be afraid of because I had complete control over how I wanted to die and when. Nothing was daunting to me. Now, it's not that severe, but I hope someone understands what I'm trying to say haha.

Regardless, I hope anyone reading this has enjoyed this book and has witnessed the development of my character, my writing, and how I see the world.