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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"AN ODOUR OF RUIN FLOATS WITHIN ME."
Mom named me (first name) by herself because dad wasn't there when I was born.
Is what you write in that spiral notebook by your nightstand. You're currently tucked under the thick duvets of the bed, head sinking into the white pillow that smells of water lilies. You're staring at the thin muslin above your head.
This is a very sad story. A sad, but loving story. This is a very lonely story.
(first name) was something mom always wanted to call me, she said. She said she got the name from a name-teller after paying a fortune. Mom said that the name balanced the elements I lacked in my last name. Mom was thoughtful; mom wanted me to succeed before I was even born. When I was the size of a pea, she would say, showing how small I was using her pinkie tip, she wanted me to be the greatest I could ever be. She knew that I would do good the moment she saw I was born; I cried with such ferocity that even the doctors laughed.
You turn over to your side. Oh, you're so tired from crying for so long. Your eyes are sore from your fingers rubbing over them, tear ducts throbbing with every breath. Your sleep eludes you like waves receding from the sand, receding farther and farther before it roared into a tsunami.
What mom didn't know that she made a monster. I stand in the blood of my ruins and it fills me with joy; the violence fills me with such ecstasy that I can't bear to face it. How vile, how filthy I have become. Mom, I'm a monster. Mom, I'm a monster because basically, there is nothing new in the behaviour of monsters; the monster herself is nothing more than an invention of her victims. I was made by this ability.
Mom, someone is going to help me redeem myself. His name is Fyodor Dostoyevsky. I joined him and Sigma and Gogol. They're going to save me and I'm going to find out why you ended your life when I was eleven.
I love you mom. Please look after me even in the afterlife.
Your sleep enfolds you like a moth entering the warm, velvety embrace of a bat and its wings. You sleep soundly, with dreams stirring you from the unconscious from time to time. You dream of being in your old home, the one that mom took such good care of, with mom in her black couch that she regularly wiped with a rag and a pile of magazines on the coffee table. It doesn't occur to you to approach her; you enter your room instead and you fall into a pit, your childhood blankets clutched between your hands. You're falling and falling and falling and then you're met with a row of elevator buttons. You let yourself press the correct button lucidly and then you wake up, pen still in hand.
