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Dazai is covered in blood.
For most people this would be a cause for concern, but Dazai’s found himself covered in blood an awful lot recently, and he learned years ago that not much comes from panicking.
It’s not as if he doesn’t want to be covered in blood. It’s just a bit annoying to clean up. Fortunately, he won’t have to deal with that if everything goes correctly.
As of right now, he’s in a bathtub filled with bloody water, naked, covered in a significant amount of wounds, and a bit tipsy.
…He wishes Odasaku were alive.
Whatever. It’s fine. He’s fine. Everything is fine. He’s going to die soon. And he’ll be fine. He’ll drift off peacefully into the afterlife and he’ll experience the pleasure of never having to think again. Ever. He’s fine.
He’s starting to shiver, he thinks. Is the water too cold? Or maybe he’s just shaking from the blood loss? It’s hard to think straight. It’s been hard to think straight for months, though.
He needs more whiskey.
He’ll get some, then.
Using what feels like all of his strength, he grabs the side of the bathtub with his right hand. And then he immediately zones out when he notices the bright contrast between his crimson blood and his white acrylic bathtub.
He blinks. And then he blinks again. And again. And then he remembers that he was trying to get something, and struggles a bit trying to remember what it was.
His head hurts.
Oh. Right. Whiskey.
A little desperately, he pushes himself up with his hands, and strains his upper body over the side of bathtub to reach a half empty bottle of whiskey on his tiled bathroom floor.
His finger tips grasp at the glass bottle, streaking it with watered-down blood.
He stops for a moment, breathing heavily, sweating.
His head is pounding.
He should’ve gone with hanging himself. He hates the effects of blood loss.
He swallows, furrows his eyebrows, and pushes himself harder against the bathtub, forcing his ribs against the acrylic. Straining his arm closer.
He successfully grabs the bottle.
Arm shaking and ribs suitably bruised, he sighs and settles his body back down into the bathtub.
He unscrews the cap and presses the bottles opening against his mouth, he lets the whiskey flow into his mouth and swallows.
…He wants to die.
He wants to die so badly. He doesn’t want to drink whiskey. Or cut himself. He just wants to die. He wants to die. He wants to die. He wants to die. He doesn’t want to think anymore. Why isn’t he dead yet? Don’t answer that. He knows why he isn’t dead yet. He wants to die.
He doesn’t care about whiskey. Or blood. Or the fact that he’s shivering or shaking. Or water. Or the fact that Odasaku is dead and he’ll never be able to see him again. He doesn’t care. He wants to die. He wants to die.
Why is he even going through the effort for all of this? All he wants to do is die. This is stupid. He hates living. And he hates whiskey. And he hates pain. And he hates bandages. And he hates it when he wakes up in the morning. And he hates eating. And he hates being hungry. And he hates feeling sick. And he hates blood. And hates being inhuman. And he hates himself.
God. He’s pathetic isn’t he?
Whatever. It’s fine. Everything is fine. He’s fine. It’s all okay. He’s going to die soon, and that’s what he wants, right? He wants to die. He wants to die. He wants to die. He’s fine.
He doesn’t want to die.
That’s not true. That’s not true. That’s a lie. You’re lying. That’s a lie. Why are you lying? He wants nothing more than to die. He wants to die. He wants to die. Why would you lie about something like that? He wants to die. He wants to die.
Dazai wants to die. He’s in a bathtub filled with water. Bloody water. Water mixed with his blood. He’s in a bathtub filled with his bloody water. On purpose. He did this on purpose. He’s committing suicide. He wants to die.
He’s fine. He’s fine. He’ll be dead soon, anyway.
Dazai stares at his thighs.
They’re covered in cuts. That word feels a bit too small, though, for what they are.
They seem a bit like gashes. Yes, that’s it. That’s the word he’s looking for. Gashes in his skin. They sting like hell with every movement he makes. If he somehow manages to survive this they’ll be like hell to heal.
Sometimes he wonders if one day he’ll cut so deep he’ll hit his hallow inside. Nothing but a void. A void. A void in a human body. Nothing but a void. Nothing but nothing. Nothing. He’s nothing. Not human. He’s nothing.
He wants to die.
His bottle of whiskey is empty. When did that happen? It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t matter. None of this matters. He wants to die. He wants to die.
He wants to die soon. He wants it to be quick. He hates pain. But does he really? Does he really hate pain? No. He hates pain. He knows he hates pain. Why would he question that? He wants to die. All he wants is to die. He’s going to die soon.
His eyes scan over the bathroom floor. Bandages are littered across the ground. They’re bloody. It’s gross. It’s gross. That’s his blood. He’s in a bathtub filled with bloody water, though, so why does it matter that his bloody bandages are gross? Bloody bathtub water has to be grosser than bloody bandages, right?
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He can’t think straight. It doesn’t matter. He wants to die.
Dull eyes catch onto a scalpel, glinting in the bathroom lighting. It’s bloody. He used it to cut himself, didn’t he? Yes. Yes he did, didn’t he? Didn’t he? He can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. It’s a scalpel. It’s sharp. He can use it. He already used it, didn’t he? It doesn’t matter. His head hurts. He wants to die.
He pulls himself up again, to reach over and grab the scalpel, but his vision goes black for a moment, and he sees stars, and he suddenly gets so nauseous he almost pukes on himself, but he ignores that and grabs the scalpel anyway.
His hands are shaking. Or is he shivering? He feels cold all of a sudden. Or has he felt cold for a while now? It doesn’t matter. He wants to die. When he’s done with this he’ll have to take the pills he bought at the pharmacy. Or was it at Walmart? It doesn’t matter. His head hurts. The pills will help him sleep. He won’t wake up again. He wants to die. He wants to die.
It’s a bit hard to breathe now. Has it always been this hard to breathe? No, of course not. His ribs hurt. They would bruise if he was going to live long enough for that. He can’t think straight. He feels nauseated. He hates the smell of blood.
Dazai feels something touch his thigh, and he realizes that he’s dropped the scalpel into the bath water. Stupid shaky hands.
He drags his hand through the water, trying to pick the scalpel up, and he manages to stab the tip of his thumb in the process. Sucking in air through his teeth, he makes a slightly pathetic noise. He hates pain. He hates this. He wants to die.
He gives up on picking up the scalpel, he doesn’t need to cut himself anymore, anyway. He’s fine. Everything is fine. He’s fine. He’s going to die soon. So he’s fine. It’s all okay. It’s all fine. He wants to die. His head hurts. He feels nauseous.
Raising his hand from the water— or is it blood, now? It’s red. It’s so red it could readily be mistaken for blood. Is it bloody water or watered-down blood, now? No. It’s not blood. He knows that. Blood feels different. Blood is thicker, and it starts to feel a bit like slime once you give it time to clot. Why is he thinking about this? It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t matter. He wants to die. His head hurts. He wishes he had more whiskey. What was he doing? It had something to do with his hand, didn’t it?
His thumb is dripping with blood. It’s streaming down his hand and his wrist and his forearm and into the bath water. He can see the stream pulse with his heart. He can feel his heart beating. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Why do cuts on your fingers bleed so much? It’s annoying. It doesn’t matter. Why can’t he think straight? He wants to die. He wants to die. He’s so nauseous it hurts to move his head. What time is it? No, that doesn’t matter, he wants to die. That’s all that matters. He’s so dizzy.
What was he doing? It had something to do with his hand. No, not the blood streaming out of his thumb, but something else. He was reaching for something, but it wasn’t the scalpel, he gave up on the scalpel. He wanted to get something. The whiskey? No, he drank that all. It was the pills. He wanted the pills. Right. That’s it. The pills. He wanted the pills.
Dazai reaches over the side of the bathtub, blindly grasping at random for the pills, and getting blood all over the floor in the process. He groans internally when he doesn’t touch anything after the first 15 seconds, and resigns himself to an uncomfortable amount of nausea for the next minute or so.
He sits up, almost puking in the process, and cranes his neck over the side of the bathtub. He eyes the pill bottle, just a few centimeters away from where he was blindly grasping. He grabs the bottle and settles back into the bathtub, almost vomiting with the movement.
He hates blood loss. Why didn’t he just jump off a building? It doesn’t matter. He’s going to die soon anyway.
After struggling a bit with the child-safety cap, he pours around 10 pills into his hand.
He blinks. And then he furrows his eyebrows, and blinks again. His head hurts. He swallows, his mouth tastes a bit like blood. Where did the pills go? He doesn’t remember taking them. Where are the pills? His throat hurts. He must’ve taken them. He doesn’t remember that. His vision is blurry. His head hurts. And he feels exhausted. He must’ve taken them.
He doesn’t remember taking the pills. But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He wants to die. He’s fine.
Everything’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. He wants to die. He’s dying. That’s fine.
…He wishes Odasaku was here.
That doesn’t matter. He’s fine.
He wants to die.
He’s closing his eyes now. He won’t wake up. He’s fine. This is fine. Everything is fine.
He feels exhausted. He’s so dizzy. He’s so dizzy. It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.
He going to die now, isn’t he? That’s fine.
It’s fine.