𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐜'𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤 | dazai osamu

2. THE FIRST DREAM: SEDUCTION OF A LONELY DEATH.

THE FIRST DREAM: THE SEDUCTION OF A LONELY DEATH.

TW: SEXUAL CONTENT, GORE.

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Shadows do not live.

Yours do.

A dark area where light is blocked by an opaque image.

The light passes through the ghostly entrails of your body. Something within you writhes and squirms in agony, like a curling larva within the steaming flesh of a mayfly, exposed by that faithful light in the folds of black.

Like animals kept to in a zoo, they escape from the confines of your bones— 'they' being the bodies that you have mutilated, rendered anonymous, stolen; a poignant sweetness of cruel, grovelling viciousness that only men in history have accomplished, falling blood-ripe onto the concrete with blood flowering underneath their bloated carcasses. Bullets and knives respectively penetrating the hearts and necks. A private show, a striptease, a brutal synthesis—the age-old question of pornography in which you stare at the degeneracy in the melting, fusing, dissolving flesh, poised in a position that not even Vatsyayana Mallanaga of Kama Sutra knew.

This isn't fair. They say. They have no mouths. Where is the noise coming from? A moaning noise akin to the sound of an organ in the Church rings in the darkness. This isn't fair.

"What isn't?" You ask. Your lungs tighten—you don't show it.

Why are we here?

"I killed you," A pile of bandages come to life before you. "You belong to me."

Our deaths?

"Yes."

Even in death?

"Yes."

That isn't fair.

The bandages, pregnant with a shadowy division, manifest into fair flesh in the darkness. A pattern of veins and scars, imitating the bare branches of winter trees, weaves throughout the thrumming skin and muscle, before fading into a dim blue.

The world, the same world that one sees when they drift off into sleep, wavers when the ripe fruit of a person blooms.

"If you kill someone, they belong to the killer?" It asks. A ripple of a gentle, warm wave encompasses your chest: A small, blood-diluted pond.

An insect larva unfurls from its egg when you taste his name. Swelling, fattening. It does not belong anywhere else but your chest.

There's nowhere you belong.

"Save yourself, Dazai," There was a repulsive softness to your voice, much like the radiance in having something soft and unresisting in your hands; a gateway to utter adoration and absolute terror that adds to the inane, lovely, lonely, lost, abandoned pond of your heart like a jar of black ink. "Away from me."

When the light snaps off and leaves you in the darkness, melting into the submissive black, you lean against the tangible air as though it was a mattress. Walls of tar-black flesh that engulf you, carefully, enveloping you into a shadowy, shapeless substance. You could be a knife. Or a gun. Anything he wanted.

Anything he needed.

Did he need to save himself?

Save himself? From you?

Become lonely again?

Everyone in love creates themselves within the ones they love; he changed you and you have changed him

By telling him to go 'save himself' only exposes the regret in loving him. It exposes the desire in separation.

It humiliates him. It hurts him. To think that your care wasn't reciprocated.

Your beloveds disappear. Diffuses into the air that you breathe in. In this pulsating silence. Solemn love and silent love. Kill what you love, you say? You have. But this was not love. This was lust.

Pressing his front against yours, where the honey-sweet curves of your flesh sinks and heals his own, he fills his bandaged hands and lonely mouth with your blood; your ink signature blackening his lips—pressing them onto your sternum, suckling at the skin there: A darkened circle. Your throat a multicoloured wound marked by your killer—an ear tag to the lamb. His only. 

Not even the farmer, who loves you so, has the luxury of spilling your sweet blood.

That man, with his knife, slashes just above your pubic bone: The womb quivers. An anatomical characteristic of the female body. A soft moan that dissolves in his mouth when he kisses you; in love with desolation, he grips at your breast and cannibalizes your scent.

Clutching at the wolf folded in him, tearing the lamb within your own—a snarled, possessive lust that deranges him.

Dazai, Dazai, my god, your awful wolf, lamb, teeth. Swallowing, licking, claiming. His mouth sucks the nipple and leaves marks on inconspicuous places. Dazai's finger gently prods the insides of your walls, thumb firmly pressing at the clit, drowning in the crook of your neck with the side of your knee under his other hand. Love bites on the insides of your thighs. (Or was that a mosquito bite? Dracula maybe?) Hair curtaining over your face. Arousal dripping down to his wrist.

His name, when you hoarsely call it out into the lily-scented air, sounds distant like a far-away crack of thunder.

Untying you from yourself and into the hands of pseudo-death, wetting his fingers and whetting his hunger; by killing you, you become his.  But was that it? Was that truly it to love? To become a shadow, to meld into the monstrous creature of your own doings? Under the salacious veil of frenzied claws raking down his back, under the risqué haze of filthy fingering and pussy eating?

Things aren't as simple as you thought they were.

If only things were as simple as that. 

But then was that what you wanted?

Death?