𝐍𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞. / Dazai Osamu x Reader

14. Alice

The morning sun wavered in and between the clouds, but only ever remained a faded white ball in the sky. A fog had descended on the streets, and every now and then a smoky black haze of a silhouette would appear before disappearing behind the wings.

You woke up, a new message from accomplice, made coffee and grabbed your coat to head out. When you lifted the coat a navy blue scarf slithered off the hook of your coat stand, and fell into a curled pile on the floor. You paused, bent down, and brushed the dust off the scarf, most which clung to the wool, refusing to come off. You let it drape over your palms as if it were the sixth sorrow. You put it back onto the hanger, you'd give it back soon, you'd see him again anyway, surely.

Outside, the air was tender, milder. You walked the usual path to the bus stop. A blurred shadow came into focus as the bus. You climbed on, shoulders tight as you huddled alongside commuters, grabbed onto a strap, and the bus trudged on towards the city centre.

The city felt quiet -- although it was a weekday, and no less people were in the city from any other day -- you assumed it was the fog that it was because there were just less you could see.

You got off the bus a couple stops before entering the city. A quaint shopping arcade sat tiresomely to your right, and across the street was a row of rundown, but still functional, buildings.

For a moment you thought you had memories from the place. You held your breath. Why? Nevermind. You let it go.

You walked away from the arcade, crossing to the other side. A small alleyway led to a another, a bendy lane, a tunnel, and then opened up to a beige and brown desert of rusty huts. The dusty clutter of houses dipped, rose, and spiralled like a storm, it's abyssal eye staring impassively at the hydrangea coloured sky. You rolled down the spiral like the balls in a marble run set.

You stopped at a small red shed. It had no windows, only a door, rusting, and with a handle that desperately clung on with it's weak screw fingers. You snapped a picture of it.

You turned round, heading back to the way to send your client the commissioned photograph. You stopped. You turned back, looked at the shed, then at the road which split, two similar, familiar looking sheds symmetrical like the wings of a pinned moth. You walked up path one, no, no, this isn't right. You walked up the second one, a little further then turned back and paused at the unfamiliar tent which sat in at a bend. You didn't pass that did you? Turning back again, you walked down and up to path one, back down and up to path two. It was definitely path two, you came from this side, yes you were sure. The rusty speckles on the sheds began to morph and snicker like the Cheshire cat at each turn, bend, twist. You looked up at the sky. At least it hasn't changed. You had thought that, until even it began to swirl and metamorphose. The sky and streets, merged, tipping this way and that, contorted, fell apart, coiled, and enveloped you, that it very nearly felt like you were melting into the ground -- now sky. Every shadow became a figure, and every branch became a claw. Every ghost you passed bore it's beady eyes on you. Your palms began to feel wet and sticky the more you pressed them into your pocket, the wool scratching your knuckles, leaving rough, dotted imprints. You became suddenly aware of your footing and tumbled like a drunk, like a child stepping off a rollercoaster for the first time. The ground rocked, then suddenly a void opened up at your feet. And you fell, rolling down, flailing, but unlike Alice, you weren't given the time to observe where you were falling, not even enough to realise which direction you were going, up or down, down or up? No, they were one in the same, you were falling-flying up-down.

"What are you doing here?"

You were midway down a staircase when you spun at the sound of a gruff voice. The voice was revealed to be owned by a short, cloaked man wearing a hat. For a brief moment you felt the fog return. You rubbed your eyes and it dispersed.

"I was looking for my SD card." You half lied.

Chuuya looked around, "here? This far out?" He raised one eyebrow, "what made you look here of all places?"

"I thought I had a lead," you said.

"Clearly none on how to get home." He said, setting your cheeks ablaze.

"Do you..." you hesitated at the thought of asking for help, "know?"

"Shut up and follow me."

You climbed the steps in silence. "What was your lead?"

"I just thought -- guessed -- deduced, there might be a chance someone might have pawned my files off on the black market is all."

Chuuya snorted. "Stupid. People here don't even have computers, how would they get your files? Not to mention we practically own the black market. We'd see that first before anyone."

"Ah."

Chuuya exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly in sync. "Listen," his voice was soft but while staying stern like a parent afraid of scaring their child. "The boss is getting impatient."

You stayed silent.

"How many more leads and ideas will it take for you to find the thing? At this rate you're... You might trap yourself in the mafia."

You nodded gravely. "I know."

"But do you really?"

You stopped in the middle of the path. Chuuya also stopped, turning around to face you, his eyes painted with a serious expression.

"I don't, Chuuya, I really don't know."