31 Days Of Dazai

asphyxiation

Suicide is often unreliable.

Lateral slits down ones wrists, a bullet to the face, a handful of pills chased by a bottle of vodka-- on paper, these methods seem reliable, intimidating, but in reality they are far from it.

Maybe it'll take you too long to bleed dry and finds you in the sorry state, then you spend the next few months in a psychiatric ward. Maybe the pills and alcohol will only bring about a day of violent vomiting and a damaged stomach. Perhaps the angle in which one places the gun ends with them merely blowing their face off, leaving them wandering hopelessly as  a faceless, senseless freak for the rest of their pitiful days, shunned away by society for their hideousness, both inside and out.

All these outcomes are very common, painfully so, so when you add on the fact that Dazai has nearly twenty-four seven observation from Mori or whichever sorry soul is assigned to making sure Dazai stays where he's meant to, these odds get even worse.

Since Dazai is left with so little opportunity to make his attempts, he's come to causing diversions around him, stirring up trouble that pulls people's attention away from him and what he's doing.

It works, for the most part, and they go flying to distractions like moths to a flame. It's amusing, watching humans react to things, of not a little uncomfortable and intimidating, knowing he'd never be able to emulate such emotions so accurately and effectively. They're illogical and run by animalistic impulse, something Dazai finds difficult to act out, despite being far more beastly than them.

So Dazai set up his distraction, leaving it to go off close to where he was, blinking slowly as the man ran from his officer in a panicked flurry, shouting down the hall to the others, equally as startled, what that noise was.

For a moment, Dazai sat at his desk, silent and unmoving, listening to the continued chaos just outside his office. He waited a moment to make sure that the man wouldn't be intending to come back too early, before standing up swiftly and closing the door, locking it behind him.

Dazai steps back to his desk and calmly opens the lowest most drawer. Razor blades, pills and bullets shifted as he pulled these were his goal. Instead, he grabbed a red spool of rope, tugging at roughly, testing the strength of the thing. Sturdy, high quality, the type you could rely on not breaking while mountain climbing.

You see, out of the many vast choices one could go with in a suicide attempt, hanging is most certainly the more reliable of them.

People died from hanging all the time, in fact, many suicides by hanging aren't in fact suicide at all, but autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong. These situations still often get marked as suicides by parents who happen upon the scene, trying to purifying the scene to preserve their child, or more accurately, they're own dignity.

Autoerotic asphyxiation often attracts sexually inexperienced teenagers who hear that the lack of oxygen can increase the pleasure, and while this can be the case, limiting ones oxygen intake is dangerous business. It leads frequently to people being too dazed or outright fainting, leaving them unable free themselves of whatever they're choking themselves with.

After all, it only takes roughly ten minutes for brain death to become a sure possibility. Any longer, death is nearly unavoidable.

This is what Dazai finds alluring about this method, the chances of him actually surving an attempted hanging is very low. He likes those odds, so, with a skip in his step and a cheerful tune, Dazai slings the rope over the ceiling fan, securing it tightly, making sure the rope wouldn't come loose or the fan wouldn't break. Thankfully, he seemed safe on both those fields.

He readies the noose itself quickly, briefly admiring his handiwork. Standing atop his rolling desk chair, Dazai slips the loop over his head so it rests loosely against his collar.

That feeling... contentedness? Anticipation? Excitement? Whatever it is, it's one he recognizes, s feeling that makes itself known during each attempt he makes on his life.

With that fluttering feeling he can best describe as butterflies, Dazai briefly makes not of the time, nine thirteen, before he excitedly kicks the chair out from beneath him.

He drops a bit before the rope pulls tight around his throat, wringing the breath out of him, body instinctively spasm and scratching at the rope.

It's tight, the ropes texturez burns he sensitive throat and his eyes burn with pressure, as if they were about to pop out of his head any moment now.

Dazai's feet kick out frantically as he scratches at his own neck, but this is all only instinctually, his body reacting without his minds permission, because had his body listened to his mind, it wound hang still and weight for the life the be wrung out of him.

He's excited, he can feel life fleeing, can feel his vision begin to speckle black and extremities go numb.

It's blissful, feeling himself go.

Life fades away from him, the room disappearing, Mori disappearing, everything that caused him grief becoming meaningless in thile face of his new, sweet, reality. Death.

Everything drops away, and in the end its relatively painless. It seems death is treating him with kindness right now. He owes it for that, for allowing his last moments to be without worry or fear. With just relief to accompany him to the abyss.

~~~~

If some God out there gave a fuck, he wouldn't be waking up with his head settled in Mori's lap.

His body is without pain, all he feels is the painful numbness of defeat and Mori's fingers gently carding through his hair.

The noose she remains around his neck, though loose and severed midway through the length that kept hung, likely cut by one of Mori's scalpels.

This doesn't surprise him, however disappointment is a painful stab to the gut.

Mori murmurs sweet nothings to him in the silence of the room, and Dazai drinks them up like a man starved of water for days.

The doctor helps the brunette to his feet, standing not coming easy from the wat his legs trembled and knees knocked together like that of a young fawn. He feels no pain, only fatigue, the skin of his neck is without pain or any odd sensation.

He feels, frankly, completely normal.

As he is led towards the door, Dazai spares a weary glance to the clock above.

Eleven thirty-one.

Two hours.

Death is imminent in less then half an hour, so how is he alive, no less completely unharmed?

Dazai's eyes remain fixed on the marble floor beneath them as they move up towards their pent house, and Dazai wonders how he managed to fail such a reliable method of suicide?

The thought comes to him all at once, and it's more of a dreadful question than anything.

Did he actually fail?