𝐍𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞. / Dazai Osamu x Reader

4. The Visitors

Perhaps it would be an understatement to say you were exhausted.  You flopped down into settee, staring blankly at the creme coloured ceiling.  In the midst of it was a brown stain, for the there was a leak just a week ago.  You ought to paint it you thought as you searched your mind for the brand of paint you had used last time.  Oh, but maybe you would need a shade darker since it had been a while since you last painted it.  Then you remembered you had to prepare dinner, you were tired so maybe you would just get a readymade meal at the convenience store, in fact wasn't the store being refurnished and, thus closed?  Then at some point your conscience drifted to making bread in that bread maker that had been gathering dust in the kitchen, then you would have to buy yeast.   That's right, you were hungry.

A sudden rapping at the door, so loud it  made you hit your head off the cabinet above and drop the biscuit you held down the sink. Christ, you rubbed your head as you stormed to the door, people these days won't spare a second for others.

You swung open the door indignantly, not bothering to check the peephole. To which you were greeted by a woman with topaz blue hair tied into a formal bun. Beside the striking girl was a bespectacled man, with large circular glasses which seemed almost disproportionate to his slim face and yet framed it with a manner of intelligence.

He pushed the his glasses up with a finger. "You're a photographer, am I correct? We're here on the premise of searching your camera—"

You cut him off, closing the door on the group.

There was a furious banging. At that rate you feared they'd break your door down, tiredly returning and opening the door as you rubbed your brow.

The man coughed, "I apologize, we should have introduced ourselves before." He produced a badge of certification, "we're with the police, we'd like to search your camera on the suspicion you have captured a criminal in one of your photographs."

The group behind the two figures were already in your home.  ‘I've not even agreed yet’, you thought.  However, you didn't have the strength and energy to even oppose it.  So you observed agonizingly as they scrambled through your flat like rabid dogs. 

The two 'guests' had also invited themselves in, talking with their pack.  Then the man with the thick glasses approached you with a troubled expression.

"You must be honest with me," he uttered as you nodded, "where is the memory card to your camera?"

"In the camera."

"It's not."

"It's not?"

"No."

You frowned, unlocking the latch which housed the card, and there, such a feeling of absolute horror drenched you, a sensation a kind to an ice cube sliding down your back, it gave you goosebumps, your hair rising like hackles.  It was empty.  "You're lying," you retorted.

"What benefit do I have from lying."

"But I don't know where it is either."

A dreadful dream you thought.  This is a nightmare. 

"When did you last use your camera?"

You began to count your fingers: yes there was ten of them, then you pinched your nose: and yes, you couldn't breathe.  You were, indeed, awake, and much to your dismay, this was all reality.

"I used it..."  You had used it on Tuesday, that's right you thought, remembering the shopping district, although you had not uploaded the files, you were much too tired that evening.  Then today, you left for your house right after meeting with Dazai, and you only brought your camera as an excuse to leave early.  You hadn't even taken the card out for months.

He nodded in understanding as he listened to you story, in contrast to the stern expression which was plastered on his face.

You needed it back.  The more you were without it, the more a gnawing, gaping feeling grew in your stomach.

You looked impassively athe group which continued to forage your apartment, throwing books onto the floor, and whatever the blue girl was saying, it went right through you.  When they finished, they tried to clean up, but you shooed them away, as watching them put things in the wrong place was excruciating.  

Now, you were alone.  Tired and hungry, but at least alone. 

A long sigh escaped your lips, as for the second time that day you fell limp into the cussions of the sofa.  The clock tutted and the kettle huffed.  You couldn't gather the energy to even make a cup noodle. 

You pulled a blanket over you, your eyelids drooping, and somewhere in the distance you heard the neighbour's rice cooker beep a lullaby.