mother, mom, ma | d.fyodor/o.dazai

19. I'm listening, mom.

You look at his long, slim fingers cradling the apple as he skins it, before nodding. "Yeah. It was me."

"A nightmare about your mother. Loneliness is simply an illusion for desire. And desire is empty. It is simply a pot waiting to be filled. Do you feel lonely, (first name)?"

You wince at the question. "There isn't a moment where I don't feel lonely. It's like holding a pile of dirty laundry that stinks all the time."

"Have you found the washing machine yet?"

"I had a dream that confirmed mom killed herself because of me," Your voice is steady and firm, a look of determination stretched across your face.

"Oh?"

"It was to stop herself and myself from becoming terrorists," You look at Fyodor in the eyes. "I think you know what that entails, Fyodor."

A stiff pause between the two of you.

"I don't suppose you think the Agency will rescue you, do you?" He puts down the apple and looks  you in the eye; purple, lifeless eyes glinting like shards of glass in the dark. And you are being torn open by these sharp shards, lacerating you and leaving you to bleed to death with words trapped in your mouth like glue. You open your mouth to speak, but find that words are useless  under the watchful eyes of demon Fyodor. "Unfortunate. And here I thought we had come to an agreement you wouldn't defect."

Your eyes widen and instinctively, you leap back as Fyodor slashes your throat with the knife, the tip grazing your skin as the fluid semi-circle movement slices through the air.

"It truly is unfortunate," He retrieves his knife and continues flaying the apple, with your blood still on the blade. "You see, I've taken a liking to you, little mouse. You're a fascinating thing to observe. You're one of a kind. Left alone in the world with nothing but pseudo parents, you live through entire tragedies through silence. Your soul bleeds and the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly, swallows you whole. You are neck deep in blood. How tragic it all is; it is akin to watching a tightrope walker teeter on its rope."

"I'm no 'thing' for you to watch," You snap, lifting a hand to your throat and feeling the warm blood bleed a line of warmth, like a pulsating necklace. You swallow and that makes the sting on your throat pulse wildly. "I joined for a reason."

"Do you think we can let you go scott-free? Surely you aren't that naïve."

"I'd like to think I can find my way out of this little mouse maze you've designed for me."

"Now you speak my language, little mouse," He puts the knife down and approaches you slowly, menacingly, like a carnivorous beast boasting its hunger: voracious, carnal. He takes your chin into his slim fingers, tilting your face up and letting his breathing synchronise with yours. You stand still, paralysed under his eyes that seemed to be like needles pinning you down to a insect collection corkboard, and try not to flinch when his cold fingers dig into your chin. "Such a shame. And here I believed that we could have painted a picture of The Grand Inquisitor with the blood of the guilty and the filthy."

"You have Gogol for that."

"Gogol is useful, but he isn't you," Fyodor responds. Almost affectionately; and that is very unsettling to hear because it sounds like someone attempting to lead you to the pit you before executing you with a firing squad. You swallow nervously. "What will you do, I wonder."

You wrench yourself free of his grasp and clench your fists by your sides. "Stop treating me like I'm an object being observed for experimentation."

He takes your hand and puts his other on your waist, as though ball dancing. He moves smoothly, methodically, and even though you step on his shoes one too many times in this sudden routine, he doesn't seem to lose his composure.

"It would be a shame if you defected," He says, dipping you down with his hand on your back to support you. "Because if you did, I would have to kill you. And I've grown rather fond of you, really."

He lifts you back up and spins you around, hand twirling above your head before enclasping you into his embrace. His embrace is strangely cold, as if his blood wasn't vital at all, but simply limply coursing through his veins.

"You can't kill me," Your grip on his hand tightens. "Our abilities counteract each other."

The sun rises and shafts of light pierces the air, igniting dust particles in its pillars into gold white flecks. Mourning doves begin to coo with their puffed chests as the light stretched over the horizon. In the long French window where lascivious green leaves bristled in the wind and the sunlight pressed against the glass like a snail's body does Fyodor's eyes gleam into the shade of wine purple: decadent and almost unholy to look at. He continues to dance with you, his movements as fluid and elegant as controlled water.

"The Agency is my next destination," You say, your eyes filled with hellish flames. Fyodor can't get a word at your sudden confession, your words cold and firm. Fire is caught in your gaze and your mind has never been clear as now. "You can't stop me."

At that second, police smash the door open.