quicksand (Dazai X Reader)

ophelia

There was a 15 minute gap between the moment the Chief of Police got out of the building and when Dazai also got out. He was 15 minutes inside the place alone and he has not described his actions in the official report. He has given no explanation to anyone, not even the President, he just said he was “looking for something” or “got lost”. Bullshit excuses. 

When I asked him about it, he did not lie to me, he just said in a serious tone.

“Just stop asking about it” 

I saw him from my desk, he was looking outside the window as he always does, finding figures on the clouds. Kenji was beside him and pointing at the clouds, yelling different kinds of animals. His eyes looked sadder than usual, yet he kept giving Kenji his best smiles, playing along so the blonde kid could have a good time.

Seeing him try makes the hurt in my chest become bearable. 

○○○

He knows she knows something is wrong. He is feeling uneasy after what happened at the Gala. Even though everything was planned by him, she seemed so…far. 

There was a small merge, it felt like when Chuuya used corruption but less intrusive, it was like she was a visitor in this dimension. The way she talked, the aura filling the air, the smell of blood and burning. Dazai wondered what would have happened if he hadn't made it in time to nullify her ability. Her body started to shut down the moment he touched her hair. 

Then, there were the 15 minutes he disappeared. Again, everything was part of his plan, nothing that happened was not foreseen by him, still, somehow, he was pretty shaken about it. He knew everything, but it felt like a punch to the gut. 

He remembered telling the Chief of Police to go outside while he made his way into the hallway, entering deeper into the place, until he reached a small couch in front of a big painting on the wall. 

Evening (1911) by Gabriel-Joseph-Marie Augustin Ferrier. 

The painting still haunts his dreams. He remembered sitting on the sofa and staring for some minutes at the woman dressed in white, alone, holding her bouquet, the flowers on her head, the dark of her surroundings. He hated it.  

He remembers standing up and walking towards the painting that he despised, and reaching behind it. The feeling of a paper hidden between the wall and the painting lingered in his hands. The words written on the small note burned in the back of his head and made the hole on his chest feel like a big black void that could never ever be filled.

He remembers punching the wall, bringing the painting down and crashing its frame on the floor over and over again until it came undone. He remembers taking the painting and tearing it to pieces with his bare hands, knuckles bruised and stinging from the damage. 

He remembers lighting a cigarette as he took the torn out painting and threw it on a nearest trash can, along with the note. He remembers lighting it on fire and watching it burn until they were nothing but unrecognizable ash. No trace of them. No proof they existed.  

His plans have not changed. What was written on that note only meant he had to act faster than anticipated but that's it. The heavy weight has always laid upon his shoulders, all the good he can get his hands on ends up leaving and staining him so he remembers nothing will ever stay and that it's him who drives it away.