𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 | dazai osamu *EDITING

the egg

edited: ✓ | 5/24/2020

trigger warnings: PTSD, abuse, implication of past self-harm, past unhealthy relationships, implication of rape.

The italics are parts within reader's novels. they were parts taken from my journal (Which is no longer around...i think my mom trashed them...)

—

Taupe walls stretch across the adjoining hallways of the house, dimly lit with candles in old-fashioned candelabra. Dainty, red bottles of perfume, embellished with gold ribbons and frills, stand still on the cabinets, collecting dust on their tiny shoulders as you walk past them each day.

The house itself was old; it had seen things you wish you didn't. Its unevenness plaster under the fleshy tone, the light scratches of fear, the small dents where your shoulder still throbbed in remembrance.

At night, in the damp scent of summer, your shadows burst into life, aggravating your already voracious paranoia, threatening to blacken and taint the delicate memories of your pain.

Rumbling in your belly was the perceived threat of whatever was at the end of the corridor—call it stupid, but for you, it had been a method of survival in which a delayed second would have sent you plummeting down the stairs.

It wasn't your fault that he had taken up all of the room that was you and left so little space—he had done that out of love, and he was emotionally compromised. It...It was attractive, right? For your lover to leave such an impact on you that he became you, right?

There is a stranger's heart beating inside of your own; call it a possessive love, but you know it is cancer. It would later grow to consume you inside out.

You flinch when you see a shadow in the form of an arm, ghosting on the walls and stretching when it swiped down. The pain doesn't flare on your skin like it used to. The sonorous, empty shouts don't pierce your heart like an arrow. What comes out of his mouth feels like you are both drowning, and the abuse in which would have once scarred you on unspeakable levels are reduced to nothing but bubbles and muffled screaming. Simultaneously, you feel so on edge, but also, you feel as though you have bypassed that edge, and were now falling into an endless abyss; you're afraid. You're afraid and so you're no good for anything. Even this fear cannot be used to fuel your love for another, even this fear cannot be used for the betterment of the self.

You are afraid. Therefore, you will be lonely. You are completely alone in this world; everything is so terrifying, and you have wanted to feel safe inhabiting this body for the majority of your youth.

Tenderly, as such with showers on a spring day, you shall strangle him. Agonized, he will pray to God, but you, having been deprived of such privilege, will turn to the Devil for a mad delirium of despair to fuel your murderous rage.

No words could ever describe your anguish, and no figurative language could ever graze the taste of your bloodied heart. He deprived me of the hunger I had. I had resorted to eating my own heart.

Nothing helped to alleviate the pain. They say that talking about it helps. But the more you poured yourself in between the white lines of where the sentences wouldn't touch, you felt robbed of your identity as if the stability in keeping your agony, your humiliation, your terror to yourself was the only thing that defined you as a person now.