𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐁 | dazai osamu

CHAPTER ONE

THE REVOLUTION OF MARYLAMB

A/N: Edited as of 2023. Happy reading!

XX

You drop the cross pendant hanging from a thin chain around your neck. You were in the midst of studying in the university library, preparing for your new year of university.

Your name is (last name) (first name). Studying at Yokohama National University in the noble field of medicine, you despise what you were doing. Not that you were ignorant about the possibilities of a better world by advancing the human parameters of medicine, but medicine was boring and it had been the least of your interest back in middle and high school.

You thought perhaps something would be ignited in your chest if you had immersed yourself in it. 'I don't know anything.' You simply concluded in your head. Something something tibia something something. Something along those lines. Tilting your head slightly to the window beside your head, you let the bright sunlight flood onto your table; the occasional winter breeze from outside elicited shivers down your arms, but you let it slide down your back, like water does. Papers, scattered haphazardly across the smooth mahogany of the table, were filled to the brim with your slanted, messy handwriting; pens were rolling off the edge of the paper and landing on the carpeted floors; people were whispering to one another as the occasional loud giggle broke the thick fog of exam anxiety in the air, palpable as a wet handful of paper-mache.

There is a very large tree outside. Despite its branches being bare of the colour of petals, its thick, dark trunk contrasts against the white bed of snow. But there were still some very small pink shoots peeking through the brown, clinging on for dear life from the snapping winds. You lean against your chair. On your lips is a flat, emotionless line, a flash of displeasure shooting through your heart like lightning.

You were sure that the necklace was from a church. Their attempt to try to bring more profit and spread the awareness of God. When you stare at the thin, silver metal, you can't help but think how incredible it was for such a small object to seize control over 2.2 billion people in the world. And it was growing with each second. You direct your gaze away from the accessory and on packing up your mess. Your backpack, having endured the abuse of heavy textbooks and sharp pens, remained comfortable on your back as you jogged out.

Your university campus was beautiful during the winter. Your beige coat was wrapped warmly around you, nose buried in the black scarf hanging on your shoulders. Your eyes peered through your lashes at the sight: brown benches and pavement whitened with snow and trees struggling to withhold the weight of the snow and icicles. The sky, despite it being a dreary, dark colour, was rather beautiful for it amplified the little sunlight that managed to slip through between the gaps of the clouds. Girls, in hands with boys, were giggling with their cheeks flushed with an obscene colour of red. You say obscene because you didn't like the way they looked so genuinely happy.

You envied them.

You scowl at your own thoughts. You thought you had moved out of your high school phase, you scolded yourself. But you cannot help but agree, secretly, at the jealousy. It eats you away like a parasite eats away at a host. The jealousy is like a sickness—it fills you with an ineffable despair at the prospect of being alone, with a cold God as your only companion.

Kicking a pebble, you stuff your hands into your pockets. You make your way to Uzumaki café. The one that was known for its frequent visitors: the ARMED DETECTIVE AGENCY. You knew about them, everyone did. They did the jobs that were far too dirty for the police and were far too clean for the mafia. You hoped that you didn't see one of them because, to be frank, all of them had this certain emptiness in their eyes that made you curious about what they had gone through in the past.