parasite [YANDERE!O.DAZAI/READER]

FOUR: THE ANCESTORS.

Dazai Osamu remembers his past with something akin to nostalgia. A sick kind of nostalgia, just like how a burnt child misses the fire.

He remembers the gunfires, the taste of whisky, the smell of his best friend's cologne. He remembers the nights of loneliness where he stared up at the ceiling of his port container home, the days of unceasing violence, the violet stare of his Boss.

And then light flashes over him. Light does not ignite the better part in him, but it does expose for what he is: a blood-covered demon. He knows he is a demon because his story is so horrifying: A little boy taken in by the Boss of the Port Mafia to become his right-hand man, who then transforms into a member of Double Black, infamous for their bloodiness and cruelty. And there it is. The real reason why he internally calls himself a demon at the darkest of nights: the idea of looking down at a horrific story and trying to get away from it only to realise that it is his. The story is him.

He is no longer the boy he once was. And that is where the nostalgia comes from: There is a comfort in being as depraved as he once was. A comfort in being as sad and lonely as he once was.

Dazai crosses his legs, slightly agitated, and sighs. He swirls what little is left in his coffee mug and rests his chin on the heel of his palm, staring at the sprawling streets of Yokohama outside the office window.

"You sound like a man pining for someone." A female voice starts him. He looks behind him, and Yosano is snapping her blue surgical gloves off as she leans her hip against one of the office tables. She receives a slight chuckle.

"Maybe I am~" He says in a sing-song voice. Yosano rolls her eyes.

"Thinking about the perfect suicide companion," She clicks her tongue. "The poor woman who has to go through Hell just to be by your side."

"She doesn't have to go through Hell. She can be Hell," Images of you flash through his mind like a blinding montage as he closes his eyes. "She can be anything she wants to be and I'd still want her."

"You sound like you have someone in mind."

"I do," He says.

"Who?"

"Not telling," He sticks his tongue out. The woman scoffs.

"You really are childish. I still can't believe women fall for your charms."

He sighs. "The one I want doesn't."

"As she should."

He indignantly looks up. "Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

She turns around and her heels click against the floor. "Nothing. You figure it out."

He stares as she exits through the front door of the Agency and he turns his gaze back to the streets below. He sighs again, and this time, there was a sad dreaminess in it that was new to him. He looks down at his desk, scattered with miscellaneous papers and documents and scraps of newspaper, before he takes a closer look at the newspaper scrap with his eyes narrowed.

<MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY: BODY FOUND HALF-DRAINED OF BLOOD IN ABANDONED WAREHOUSE>

The newspaper scrap had been torn off so that only the title remained. Dazai picks it up and recalls your words. You never left a body half-desiccated.

Was this someone else's doing?

He stands up and drinks the rest of his coffee, before slinging his coat over his shoulders.

He was going to visit your chateau.

–

The setting sun sank lower and lower behind him as he walked into the forest, where then the darkness seemed to enclose him in its canopied claws. The shadows of the evening began to creep around him. This emphasised by the fact the newly sprouted leaves held the sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate mix of cool pink and green. The growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness, the gloom of the trees, oak, beech and pine daunting in their long, straight shadows. As the evening fell it began to get colder and colder, March winds slicing his cheeks as he delved deeper and deeper into the forest, where your chateau, falling apart and lined with ivies, lived. A haunted house, he mused–then again, weren't all houses haunted? By memories; by the history of their sites, that be cursed or not; by their owners fantasies and lives?