d. fyodor x reader x o.dazai | You had been destined to die from the beginning. Through you does she slip, like sunlight through a sieve, settling onto the ruins of future human relationships, thereby destroying any chance of existence. Dead before...
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"THE FRONT OF MY HEART SLICED AWAY."
Mom is sewing something in her hands. It is a navy pair of jeans. She licks the thread to sharpen its point before funnelling it through the hole of the needle.
"How can you see the hole?" You had asked, watching from her lap with your arms crossed under your chin. You have to close one eye and squint to see the tiny needle hole. Mom winks, before she says,
"Watch this," She pricks the end of her finger with the needle and a drop of blood sprouts from her fingertip. Your eyes widen in alarm, unable to get a word in before she pops the finger into her mouth and sucks.
"Why'd you do that? Doesn't that hurt?"
"The trick of it all, is not minding that it hurts," She wisely says. Once the bleeding ceases, she pierces the tear in the jeans with the needle via ladder stitch. She sews up the gap and hums echoes of times long dead that are so hard to forget, to forgive, and bites down on the thread to snip it. The tear in the jeans closes up and she flaps the pair, looking at it with pride.
"Good as new," She says, before folding the pair of jeans into a blue square. It is your pair of jeans that she's putting away, the tear from where you had fallen from your bicycle. You watch her as she folds the rest of the laundry up.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Where do we get money for this house?"
Mom's shoulders stiffen up.
You notice her ring finger doesn't bear a ring anymore.
The colour blue in your hands reminds you of the faded light blue of those jeans your mother had sewn up so many years ago. You turn the pen over in your hands before picking out black pen and a mechanical pencil.
"I'll just be buying these," You say to Dazai. He had been insistent on following you the entire trip, friendly arm around your shoulders despite your horrific crimes and laughing at whatever blunt thing you had to say about him. "Let go of me."
"You're too warm to let go of, really," He says, waving at the blushing employee behind the counter as you walk closer to her. You place the three pieces of stationary onto the plastic counter and pull out your wallet.
"What did that message say, by the way?" You ask, leaving the stationary store with your pens in your pocket. Dazai pulls the paper again, and shows it to you. It was a batch of musical notes on some lined musical paper, its black heads creased and wrinkled from the insides of Dazai's pockets. You take it from him and look at it closely. "You have any idea?"
