Figments of Beauty

VI

TW: vague discussion of unhealthy eating habits/eating disorder origin stories

Late September, 2012

His mother looked down at him with hope in her eyes, smile spread wide on her cherry-red lips, and it was all just like he remembered it. Her hands were warm on his shoulders.

"You're the most handsome young man I've ever seen, you know. And you can't stay that way if you eat that, so let's wait until later, okay? Come here, let me brush your hair."

He set the pastry back down on the cutting board and padded toward her, sitting himself down on the stool without a word. The hairbrush scratched just a little too much at his scalp, but he never complained when his mother fell into a mood. He kept his jaw locked and looked straight ahead.

"You have such beautiful hair, sweetheart. You remember to take good care of it, okay?"

"Okay."

"I noticed you haven't been using those creams I got you for your birthday last year. Do you not like them?"

The question itself was innocent enough, but he knew better. "I do," he muttered, fisting his hands in his lap. They were cold.

"I can't hear you, dear, speak up. You know I don't like your mumbling."

"I do."

The hairbrush tugged his head backward. "Then why don't you use them?"

He shut his eyes tight. "They're sticky and they make my face feel weird."

At first, there was no response. The brush was gentler on his hair, now, and his mother's hands were still soft. But after a few moments, when she set it down and turned so he would face her, he could tell what was running through her head.

"Osamu," she began, reaching up to brush his cheek with gentle fingers. They were much warmer than his. "You know I love you, right?" He nodded. "And you know I would do anything for you?" Another nod. "You know, when I was growing up, I wasn't pretty like you."

If his mom were in an easier mood, he might've sighed. This was as familiar as her warm hands, or the stinging of the brush.

"I didn't get to do the shoots or be in the magazines. But you," she smiled, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "You're going to be a star."

Dazai's eyes snapped open. His mother's voice still rang in his skull as he stared at the ceiling, chest empty as ever. Star, star, star, star.

Would she never stop haunting him?

Dazai let out a long, shaky breath and looked to the clock on his bedside table. A blinking two stared back at him, mocking, and he sighed. Trying to shut his eyes again would be pointless, insomnia or not. Her image was burned into the backs of his eyelids, as it often was after things like that.

The moon was still high in the sky and throwing light in through the windows, casting a hazy silver glow over the entire room. Dazai had always liked the moon—it wasn't obnoxious, like the sun was, and it didn't make his cold hands tingle either. He sighed again and rolled back onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Nightmares weren't infrequent for Dazai. He was plagued by all kinds of demons—one of the most persistent being his mother. She was often the lilting voice in the back of his head, telling him to do this and that, to hide this and get rid of that. She was the thrashing guilt in his stomach at every meal, the hollowness behind his ribs after the camera. She lived in him like a parasite, eating him away until only his skin was left. Not that it mattered—that was all he was worth, anyway.