d. fyodor x reader x o.dazai | You had been destined to die from the beginning. Through you does she slip, like sunlight through a sieve, settling onto the ruins of future human relationships, thereby destroying any chance of existence. Dead before...
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You're back in the motel room, the face of the strange man still burned into your retinas; it was easy to remember such a peculiar man like Dostoyevsky, with his thick silky accent and the jagged pronunciation of certain words. You stare at your palm, at the lines scored across your palm, and clench your fist—preoccupied with your thoughts you flop back onto the bed.
That sense of foreignness only felt familiar to you; the disparity present in him was a mirror to your own, a split, a half, one light and one dark. Your mouth felt heavy and grainy.
The way he spoke to you was as though he had known you his whole life like you were some ancient childhood friend of his that only existed in the immortalized frame of a flimsy photograph. The way he stared at you, took your face into the decadent violets of his eyes, killed the air around you, and stitched himself into your orbit; he looked through you, past the wobbling walls of your desperation, and seized your soul with a palm until you seeped out between his fingers, a gasp, a tinge of red, a smart in the chest.
"What a weird man." You mutter to yourself. And although you had said that to assuage the growing uneasiness in you, the undeniable pull of his composure, the desire to know him until you passed through him, it only seemed to worsen the ache you had for this man. You're, by means, not an ultrareligious person by any means, but you really think that man was made for you. He had fit into you like a hook to an eye, the core of a venn diagram, the two ripples on a lake overlapping before melding into one. It felt as if he had turned you inside out, looked at the mechanisms of your insanity, and held you all bone and blood in his hands.
You peel off your socks and wrap the blanket over your head. You listen to your heart, opening, and closing, flushing with blood, then collective blackness.
You wake up the next morning and quickly use the bathroom to wash up, make the sheets, and look at the hidden drawers and double-check if you had left anything behind. The owner of the motel takes back his keys but before he could say anything else, you were gone.
It's still raining. A miserable morning, grey and damp, roaring and rumbling with black thunderclouds above, your expression turning sour before you give up and walk straight under the torrent. Your hair sticks to your face, but you keep stonefaced, un-relentless in your journey walking past strangers who look pitifully at you under the safety of their umbrellas. You're not sure where to go, but you need to keep running.
You need to keep running before you hit Ground Zero.
Everything outside looked warped when your eyes were filled with rain. But something catches your eyes, and it was almost as if the rainstorm had stopped just above what you were focusing on.
