PIED PIPER | dazai osamu

18: privately, you perform.

How many were there? Your eyes feel like they're burning when they land on the glossy surface of each photograph, the immaculate nature of so animating the blood still flowing beyond the photograph's sheen. Your fingers felt cold and a violent shiver flared down your spine, before curling in your stomach and sending icy-hot goosebumps to prick into your neck and arms.

An uncomfortable gasp for air.

"—iss? Miss?" You snap your head up. The weary eyes of the bartender blink back at you. In a flurry of panic, you sweep the photographs into your arms and slide them into your pockets. "Are you alright? You look flustered."

Your voice fails you, but it comes back hoarse and weak, but nonetheless, somewhat willing to serve your frazzled mind. A trembling nod. "Y-yeah. Just. You know," You awkwardly gesture to the clock ticking away at the wall. "Nightmares...?"

But before he could offer a hot drink, you bolt out of the bar. Your heavy footsteps clambering up the footsteps go unheard when you bash the door open, the neon sign outside blacking out in shock. But a second passes and it flames into life once more. You raise your hand to your face to shield your eyes from the bright light, but the sting goes unheeded when you hear the distant chirping of the birds.

It's going to be morning soon.

Almost at once did you nearly ram your head into the brick wall in desperation. What do you do? Of course, you knew that the best course of action would be to go back home; hang your coat (or fling it as if it didn't exist), curl up in bed, pretend that your heart wasn't numbing itself out from the adrenaline freezing your nerves, and hope that he wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary. But that was the problem—he always did. You knew he would. His eyes caught onto anything as if you were a piece of woollen fabric that would get knotted under the miscalculation of his diligent claws.

He would scope out, with intolerable ease, the slightest of stutter in your breast, the fevered sweetness of a potential mental ailment stewing in the cauldron of your skull, or even the misplaced spasm of a finger hidden underneath the beige coat. Like a mirror, what he saw in himself was bound to manifest in yours.

But it was just whether or not he concluded it as severe or mild would you be let off the hook. (In this case, his hooked claw.)

You lean against the wall of a dark alleyway, shifting your gaze from the pavement to the content in your marbled palm. The photos were real. Right? Not some...not some sick deluded reaction from your burning head. But then again, Oda and that cat weren't real...they had disappeared like fog before your eyes, and the only remnants of their existence were proven by what little alleviation was given from speaking out your troubles. But that was quickly overridden by the smooth surface of the pen gliding over your fingertips.

Your pen, the one that you had thought was gifted by Kunikida, (a naïve daydream now that you think about it; never had he paid any attention to your usage of the pen.) was now no longer the colour you had once thought it was, but it was now a deep shade of burgundy, glistening and gleaming like blood icicle in your hand. Dumbly, you stare at it, before mustering what little courage you had from your self-possession to shove it back into your modest pocket.

A gentle brush of the hand over the face. Like you are setting up a barrier or letting the blinds sweep over your face. A collected breath.

Even though all these measures were taken, you scream into your palms. You felt so miserable that tears came sliding out of your eyelids, but even then, your sob sounded dry in your throat. A gag, and then a rough retch. A vicious wave of hostility that flooded your core, curling at the edges before receding back for another wet strike. More tears pour out of your eyes when you wail and lament, clutching your head in that lonely little alleyway with your back sliding down.