It was hard to see in the dark.
It was hard to think with a mind so loud.
The whispering wasn't coherent, just muddled noises that sounded like human speech, meant to imitate talking. It grew louder and louder every moment.
Dazai wished it wasn't real, gripping his hair with his hands, trying to make the voices stop hurting, stop scratching his brain in such a disgusting way.
It was never ending, he had spent days there, in that old building, rotting slowly, barely eating any of the small scraps of food he was given.
If any light shone through the cracks in the old wood, it would sting his eyes, no longer used to seeing anything except for the blurry outlines of the things in that room.
His room.
What he knew as his room, at least.
He didn't know much else besides it.
He had accepted his life in that darkness long ago, allowing his body to starve away, so that he would soon die.
He wanted to die, that was why he was there.
He failed at living, gave up and thus, he was removed from the world. Still, being away from it all didn't make him feel better.
There was still a deep ache somewhere in him, a longing for death that he had never managed to remove from his body.
He had tried, of course he had. Feeling that way was unbearable and he wanted whatever caused it gone. He could die, that was also a possibility, but he was never told he could want that. His entire life, people told him he wanted to live, that everyone wanted to live. Death was a fear, something to avoid.
Even if it didn't seem that way to Dazai, he didn't know any other way.
All he could do was find a way to remove that pain from his body.
People never liked what he did, and they never seemed to understand why.
They pitied him but only because they chose not to listen.
He didn't need to be pitied.
He needed the pain gone.
When razors sliced at his skin, it felt good in an odd way. The blood dripped out from the wounds, splattering into the old floors, staining them.
It looked good, the sight of red lines going up his arm, leaking crimson.
He liked it, even if nobody else seemed to.
The taste was also good, like iron.
It was a taste he was told not to like, because blood wasn't a good thing.
But that was something Dazai found he couldn't help.
He liked blood.
He was a danger to people, apparently.
Maybe they weren't entirely wrong about that, if he could, he would use other people to get his pretty red liquid.
But he never had.
The looks on their faces, when they saw what he had done, when they saw his arm, the blood and the cuts and the beautiful thing he had done.
Why were they so shocked, so scared?
Why did they all rush to him to console him when he felt fine, when the stinging seeped down into his veins in a way that extracted the overwhelming feeling of something wrong.
YOU ARE READING
The Crow in the Dark
Fanfiction|| TRIGGER WARNINGS: Abuse, rape, sexual assault/abuse, suicide, self harm, starvation, disordered eating, drugs, alcohol, delusions, hallucinations, dissociation, depersonalization, derealisation. || Dazai was never taught the things he needs to kn...
