𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐁 | dazai osamu

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE REVOLUTION OF MARYLAMB

Dazai would usually describe himself as a calm, composed intellectual with a penchant for attempting suicide. Killing himself was normalised as eating in his world.

But now, he feels nothing but raw, cold panic eating away at his hands.

And it exacerbates when drops of your blood flood his face, into his mouth; it tastes warm and coppery on his tongue. You attempt to stand up, hands still twisting the blade in your throat, before ultimately pulling it out of your throat. Blood spurts out.  You collapse onto your back with a THUD. He scrambles over and calls 119 with shaky hands. The security guard screams at the sight of red-black pools of blood spreading over your head, your eyes wide and unseeing towards the ceiling. He doesn't prop you up on his thigh and cradle you because that might do more damage to your neck. He fights back the urge to cry. His face is frozen as he explains the situation to the emergency dispatcher, heart beating in his temples, demons eating away at his shadow, making it transparent in the dropping sun.

You'll be fine. You'll be escorted to the hospital, and Yosano will fix you up in no time.

Right?

The ambulance drives you two straight to the hospital, with Yosano on the phone stating she would be taking the taxi there. The sirens wail in his head, a throbbing pain in his temple at the noise; they were already grieving as though you had already died.

"Who is she to you?" One of the paramedics asks, removing your bloodied hands from your neck and placing it by your side. Your eyes have been closed long ago, fluttering shut as your breath lightens. His hands were bloodied from attempting to block more blood from escaping. The sight makes him sick to the core. Dazai's eyes dim at the question, and it takes him a while to compose himself without breaking down.

"I'm in love with her."

"Usually, people cry when their loved ones attempt suicide," The paramedic takes a seat besides him. "You're awfully detached from the situation."

"Because it wasn't a suicide," He says. His eyebrows furrowed and his voice deepened in utter despair. Flashes of Odasaku play out in his head; he was ultimately reliving his own memories. "She said it was martyrdom."

"Religious?"

"Yes," Dazai answers. His voice sounded detached; antiseptic. The word sounded dark to him now, when it should usually reveal light. Religious. The smell of Church, the movement of the hymns persists, rich and mesmerising, desolating, infused with guilt.

Catholic guilt.

They arrive at the hospital the same time Yosano climbs out the cab, her face stone cold with a mixture of shock and medical professionalism. She is quickly briefed on the situation, and the staff usher her to the operating table.

Yosano does her magic on you and Dazai's waiting outside the operating room, his head in his hands. He wasn't crying, but he was being crushed under the weight of his own despair, his suicidal nature coming back in waves.

All of this was his fault. All of this was his idiotic self's doing. He had unravelled you; had you not met him, you would have been alive and well. But he had foolishly exposed you to a world of your own Godlessness, and you were attempting to take it back from him. Reverse the mistakes. Reverse his doings.

He can see you when he closes his eyes, and you're sinking further and further down the dark, which is hard but transparent, like ice. You look up to him sorrowfully as you recede. Your face dissolves, reforms: He can see your smile radiating at the paintings in the art museum taking shape beneath it. This happens in an eye blink. It's as if he had been standing outside the dark and a shade has snapped up, revealing the light that has been going on inside with its clarity and detail. There is that glimpse, during which he can see. And then not.