"I'M RUNNING OUT OF GOOD THINGS."
In your dream, there is a door. A heavily barricaded door, with a log locking it diagonally.
You lift the plank of wood and open the heavy room. Blood red peonies scatter the floors, like a snail trail of blood. Bright white lips of spider lilies spin and blossom to red. The walls are nightmare black and in the centre of all this redness is a figure with her arms open and her lips open into the shape of a crescent moon. Her eyes are covered with a thick, opaque veil.
"Come here, (first name)."
You take a step closer to her.
You pause to pick a flower on the side of your foot to give it to mom.
A flower. A rabbit.
A flower.
But there's something wrong in the way she stood; she stood as though she was emanating vapour from her shoulders, steam rising like dissipating perfume off her body, like a plug pulled on a float toy. You pause.
There is something very wrong with this person that looked like mom.
She is tiptoeing on the stool that she is standing on, her arms open as though a wooden figurine of Jesus Christ and his white robes.
Dreams distort a sound since it is sent over many seas of the mind—again you cannot see mom's face properly without guessing where her eyes are looking. Are they looking at you or—
Or the blood on your hands?
When did that happen?
You look down and find that the flower you have picked wasn't a flower at all, but instead a rabbit that you have shredded into pieces. Sticky, dark blood clings to your palms and streak the lines there, fingers glued together as they quickly begin to dry into a coppery brown.
"My sweet (first name)," Mom says, her neck tilted down from the noose that was hoisting her up. Then, with a smile, she kicks the stool away from her and swings side to side slightly.
You run to her to hug her body and tug her down, but she eludes you like water receding; the more you run, the farther she disappears into the darkness.
In the middle of this dream, it seems like the dream will never end; you feel dead: you are like a blacksmith, with so much dark matter staining your apron. You try to wipe the blood away but to no avail—they simply grow darker and darker against your skin. You are in a place not even God can reach, because you are trapped within yourself, a Godless place where a dead person is resting in.
Mom dangles further and further away from you. You run but fall to your knees, stumbling at the thick rose bush that curls before your feet. Your arm outstretched for her, a word, a sound, a desperate cry being borne in your throat.
"NO!"
You wake up with a jolt. You bang your elbow on the nightstand and that sends the pencil rolling onto the floor and below your bed. Your breath comes out haggard and your shoulders are stiff, and you have to manually loosen and lower them forcefully. You squeeze your eyes shut and take deep breaths, putting a hand to your chest.
Why did that scene of mom in her last moments have to haunt you on such a primal level? Your girlhood was an incubation for madness; under mom's feet was a trapdoor to heaven that she would never enter, for she would be swaying like a pendulum by the noose.
You get out of bed. You slide out of your pyjamas and into your given clothes, before getting down onto your knees and looking under the dark underbelly of the bed.
A knock at the door before it opens.
"Good mo—What are you doing?" Sigma looks away from your bottom sticking out as you waved a hand underneath the bed for your pencil.
"I dropped my pencil," You sit back up when your searches result in nothing. You sigh, unaware of the flush on Sigma's ears. "Guess I'll just have to buy a new one."
"I'm sure Fyodor won't be so pleased," Sigma says, coughing into his fist. You tilt your head at him.
"It's just a pencil. What's the big deal about it?"
"Well, you're going to want another one, aren't you? Another chore added to his list of many things to do," Sigma replies, helping you to your feet as you outstretch a hand.
"Speaking of Fyodor," You say, brushing the dust off your knees. "Does he have anything to do for me?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Sigma kindly suggests. "He's more than fond of you."
You point at your chest. "Me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You are no hypocrite in his eyes," Sigma says, walking you down the corridors. "You are as pure as one can get. You're blunt in your wants, your desires, your future. There's a great silence in you. You teach him that love is distinctly a human counterpart to human greed. How mystical is that?"
"I don't think I have that sort of effect on him," You say, laughing nervously. Sigma shrugs, lilac hair falling like lavender water over his shoulder.
"Believe or not, seeing is believing, and I can see it. It's hard to hide it," He says. You tilt your head.
"Hard to hide it?" Sigma shakes his head.
"I'm no poet," He says, before stopping at the door of Fyodor's office. "Good luck on today's tasks, if you're given any."
"Thanks."
You watch him disappear down the corridor before opening the door.
Fyodor turns his head over his shoulder, before spinning around to face you. He lets his pen roll off the table and between his two fingers is a folded piece of paper.
"What's this?"
Fyodor hands you a small, receipt sized sheet of paper. You take a quick skim of it: an encrypted message that you can't decipher.
"A message," He says, simply.
"Surely there are more inconspicuous ways to get a message across, especially by your standard," You say, folding the paper in half and tucking it into your pocket regardless. Your eyebrows are furrowed and your lips are pulled into a thin line.
"Yes, but did you not need a new pencil?" He asks, lightless eyes turning up into a smile as your shoulders stiffen.
"You know, Sigma's said some interesting things about us," You say, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Oh?"
"He said you're rather fond of me."
A pause in his typing. Then he continues to type, as if you had asked him something as trivial as the weather. "That is true."
"Why?"
"There are many saints that were once sinners. Even sin can be a way to saintlessness, sin, and vice. You who came from a womb of mortal sin, of societal sin, continue to live, persistently, ceaselessly. Something of your calibre fascinates me. I often think that even you might be a saint in disguise. Ah, (first name)," He finally spins around and smiles at you once more, the smile filled with dark melodies and everything cold. "We have to stumble through so much dirt and sin before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness. I have a homesickness for a land cleansed of filthy sinners and ability users. I presume you are homesick for a world where your mother is still alive?"
You pause, taking in his word.
"No..." You carefully formulate your response. "I'm homesick for a world where I know why she did it."
"Well, I made a promise I would help you find that answer," He says, turning back to his computers. "Farewell, (first name). And do get yourself some pens and pencils instead of just one."
You exit his room and lean against his door, closing your eyes and sighing.
"Ah~The longer and more carefully we look at a funny story, the sadder it becomes." A familiar voice bounces off your ears as your eyes flutter open, and you're met with the singular eye of Gogol's grey eye. You muster up a smile.
"Hey, Gogol."
"Good morning, (first name)~" He spins around and takes your hand with him, your wrist plunged deep into a golden, swirling portal. You wiggle your fingers, and it responds a few feet away from you. "You're not screaming. I wonder why, my dove?"
"I've grown quite used to strange things after my mom's suicide," You answer truthfully. "Anyways, give me my hand back. I need to deliver a note."
"Dostoy sent you on a task?"
"Yep."
"To who?"
"I'm not sure," You pull the paper out, then deadpan at its recipient. "Oh. To the Armed Detective Agency."
"Oh, that sounds exciting!" He claps his hands together. "Well then, let's get going!"
"We're going together?"
"I didn't hear Dostoy say you had to go alone," Gogol retaliates, and you shrug.
"I guess not."
—
The black car ride there is done with Gogol's wise ramblings. You say wise because they had a hard kernel of truth within them, like popcorn.
"The future is unknown, and stands before man like autumnal fogs rising from swamps; birds fly foolishly up and down in it with flapping wings, unaware of their own freedom, never recognizing each other; the dove seeing not the vulture, nor the vulture the dove, and no one knowing how far he may be flying from destruction."
"All this bird talk has me thinking of a quote from a book I read as a kid," You say, crossing your legs. "'The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born first must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. That God's name is Abraxas.' It turns out, Sinclair, the bird, had to break free and accept himself for who he was."
"And who was this Abraxas fella?" Gogol asks.
"Abraxas is everything united: light, dark; he transcends all thoughts, feelings, all dreams. Imagine everything you have ever known. That is Abraxas."
Gogol claps his hands together in utter delight. "You! You understand my plight!"
"Do I?"
"Yes you do! You understand the plight for freedom, how difficult it is for the egg to crack. Just as a bird breaking free from its egg and embryonic waters, I wish to be free of all emotions! And you," He points a finger at you. "You will be the one to tell the tale of my magnificent transformation."
The car comes to a stop.
"Sure," You say, unbuckling your seatbelt. "I'll be the one to tell."
"Excellent!" He ghost-pats you on the shoulder. "Now don't be long, (first name). You told me you needed some stationary after this, no?"
"Right," You slam the car door shut and take a deep breath. The brick red walls of the Agency building seemed like the blood you've spilt. You close your eyes and you can hear the slow, methodical drip of blood trickling down the bricks, and when it gets too much for you, you open your eyes once more. You take the lift and the humming of the drafts underneath the walls lull you into a sense of false security, when in reality your body is angled into an unkind, frightened animal position, prepared to strike at any second.
The elevator dings.
There is no one in the Armed Detective Agency when you boldly open the door, the doorknob twisting under your grip. Until—
"Oh?" You jump back at the lilted voice of Dazai sitting on one of the client couches. "I didn't expect the serial murderer to come willingly to the Detective Agency."
"I'm on a task," You shuffle around for the paper in your pocket and hand Dazai the paper. "Fyodor wanted me to give this to you guys."
You turn to leave.
"At-at!" Dazai swivels on the ball of his foot to twirl himself in front of you, opening his arms just as you step into them. He holds on for a second before releasing you. You don't look fazed at his sudden grip of affection. Which was strange, knowing that he and Fyodor were the only two people in the world to be able to touch you without being annihilated. "Not so fast, belladonna!"
"Don't call me that."
"Oh? Would you prefer domestic terrorist?"
You don't look fazed at that either. "Probably."
"Hm," He puts a finger to his chin. "You know, the Armed Detective Agency isn't quite ready to let you go."
"Let me go? I'm already out of your guys' hair."
"You're not quite history just yet, there's hope," He says, pauses, then continues. "At least, the president has hope."
He circles you like a vulture and you, a broken apart doe, roadkill—and then he makes up his mind.
"Tell me about your childhood," He asks, nicely at that, and you blink.
"What, do you want pity points that can be used to justify my behaviour?"
"No, I'm just curious."
"Childhood? Which childhood? The one that didn't last?" You sneer, but your expression is inherently tragic. "I was happy as a kid. Who would have known that happiness isn't for people like me."
"People like 'me'?"
"People like us," You point a finger at his chest, where his bolo tie gleams. "People who are alone like us and who are little fond of life and people and ourselves and can put up with them only a little and their sinful stupidity. There are always a few such people who demand the utmost of life and yet cannot come to terms with its absurdity and cruelness. We're both strangers in a room that's filled with camaraderies."
He stares down at you.
"Why have you turned down our offer to join the Agency?" He asks, earnestly. "The pay's good, you get to find out why your mother died in suicide legally, you don't have to be a terrorist. Why did you join the demon Fyodor?"
You smile at him. And that smile is very frightening to him, because it looks wrenched, from the guts of inside of a star, the gorey insides of life, passionately burning red and cerise and dripping with teardrops. "Dazai, the good life is not for me. Mom died. I can feel her inside of my head; she grows heavy with suicidal violence when I come near you guys."