31 Days Of Dazai

shackled

Shuji slumped against the brick wall, entire body tense and aching and having to sit so long on and against such uncomfortable surfaces, damp pavement below him.

He was grateful, though, that the dogs hadn't been let loose on him for too long, leaving him alone, cold, battered and bitten to wither away in that dark, windowless room.

Dust caught in his throat with every weak breath, drawings coughing and wheezing from him. His thigh was shaking from a deep wound that tore a chunk of tissue off, a nasty doberman with stinky breath had been the one to get that one in.

His body burned yet simultaneously stung with cold, nerves confused about which sensations to be feeling at the moment, and he didn't much care to distinguish the correct ones.

His eye slipped shut, lip quivering as his tongue darted out to smooth over a split lip. A shiver racked his shoulders, and the phantom sensation, a distant memory by now, of a warm, soft blanket pulled taut across his body, soaking warmth deep into his bones, bringing the closest thing he could imagine contentment to be.

(What was human warmth? When people touched him, the heat from their skin never penetrated his own, in fact quite contrary, a deep, all encompassing chill would burden his body, his frailty becoming all the more painfully evident. He shied from touch, because to be touched or held brought about that terrible sensation. Was Mori the closest to warmth he'd experience? Theres nothing warm about the man, but he satiates his desire for contact nonetheless. His hands treated him with an unfamiliar kindness. Still, he had yet to decipher what this was, but it fed something within him, and brought with it a kind silence.

It was bittersweet.)

Shuji began together his torn and displaced bandages, catching the filthy gauze and trying to fix the this fabricate back into its designated place.

Tugging only further tightened what remained of the fabric on his elbow, and the rest was shredded, impossible to put in place.

Increasingly more distressed, Shuji's movements became more jerky and frantic. He stretched the remains thin, but they wouldnt cover the wounds, scars, cuts and bruises bore plainly to the world and whoever would fetch him from the basement in the morning. He didn't want anyone to see him so vulnerable, to see him in his true, rotten and festering state. They'd realize what he was, realize he was no human being, wasn't a child, but a mere bug, a pesky cockroach that was exceptionally hard to kill, one who's protective, fleshy shell reflective any wounds or attempts at his life, despite his welcome for such attempts to be made.

They'd give him those disgusted, piteous looks, watch wither away below them, pulse fluttering, still there despite his resentment for this fact.

He wanted the doctor.

Shuji pulled his wrists chains taut, beginning to rub at the exposed flesh, the cold metal against sensitive, wounded flesh burned, and he could feel it begin to rub raw.

Doctor Mori was human, but generally treated him with kindness, or what he presumed to be such. Mori would treat the wounds his father had gifted him, touches soft and tender. He brought Shuji gifts and snacks, sweet tasting candies or frilly dresses, the latter of which Shuji didnt particularly like, however he put up with it because it pleased the Doctor. The Doctor was kind, so Dazai attempted to emulate such an emotion in return.

The skin had split and blood began to escape, slicking the metal and making it harder to properly saw at his wrist with it, other hand grasping the chain and tugging, yanking it around hard to press it further into the weeping wound.

When he touched Shuji, it didn't always hurt. Sometimes it did, but the pain made the Doctor happy. Whenever his father hurt him, it never pleased him, it only served to fuel his anger, regardless of his reaction, or lack thereof. But when Mori hurt him, he liked it. Mori liked the things he did, so so did Shuji.

Shuji's head began to fill with cotton, blood oozing onto the floor, staining the damp concrete red, the air tasting strongly of iron.

Mori held his hand sometimes, or pet his head or touched his cheek. It was the kind, sentimental movements that the black haired man made that brought a fuzzy feeling to his chest, the strange sensation the swelled up in the hollow cavity, and once Shuji had brought up this feeling to the good Doctor, asking if he was perhaps ill, and the man simply laughed and lay his hand atop his head, and assured him he was perfectly well. The feeling resurged and Shini was left confused once more.

With the way he was bleeding, and the clear symptoms of bloodloss that muddled his thoughts, he came to the conclusion that he would either die or end up in Mori's care. The man never let him die, no matter how he begged the man, he kept the liquid life pumping through his veins, and perhaps that's the only thing he disliked about the Doctor.

His eyes were clearer, though. Most humans, Dazai could not understand, their eyes were a mystery, however Mori's wine coloured ones brought a sense of security, familiarity, because when he looked in a mirror, they were so much like his own, swallowing up the light like a hateful vacuum. Mori was different from other humans. When Mori looked at him, he didn't want to claw his own eyes out as much.

He hated when other humans looked at him. He never understood what was going on in their minds, many said the eyes were the windows into the soul, but everytime Shuji looked within a person's eyes, he found himself lost and confused, they were unfamiliar terrain, he couldn't see past the pupil, the only thing he could see was his own vile expression within the reflection, and so he withdrew.

Eyes may be the window to the soul, however to Dazai, they were slammed shut.

Static filled his ears, and he dreamed of a soothing nothingness.