31 Days Of Dazai

hallucination

Sleep is, apparently, nonnegotiable.

Now this isn't something he's only now learned, in fact it's been something he's been intimately aware of since before he even hit double digits.

It only takes three nights without sleep for hallucinations to begin to kick in, for his memory to fail and lag, and mind to stall in the midst of performing tasks.

This isn't new, he's always found his way around the issue, to keep awake and aware for just a little longer, whether it be to complete a mission or simply self punishment.

He knew it got to the point that Mori had even put his foot down about the situation, after four or five days forcing pills down his throat to make him recover his sleep schedule. He likes to think, even now, that this was done out of an interest of keeping Dazai healthy, perhaps out of love or care, but at the back of his mind, he feels the wriggling thought that Mori only did so to get more use out of him.

Dazai is trying to fall asleep, though, genuinely, he keeps shutting his eyes and falling out of his mind only to realize they've reopened and he's now staring wide eyed at his dorms ceiling.

It's awful, having eyes stapled open to the ceiling, unable to keep them closed and allow his body it's most neddy resource, just simply left to stare at the popcorn ceiling with only the thought of how lovely sleep is, how much you desire it, and yet it's out of reach. These are out of Dazai's reach, he knows it, and its painful in the moment because the taste of falling into nothingness, mind blanking and resting, even if it plays back unwanted memories or scenarios completely impossible, he yearns for it through a mind wrecked with exhaustion.

Yanking the blanket up to his chin, Dazai flipped onto his side, staring at the floor hard as his eyes burned viciously. Once again, his eyes fluttered but could not remain closed, his attempts ending in failure. They always did.

The sound of cars passing by outside was muffled, but it still made it's way through. A siren sounded, and he wondered is someone was lucky enough to be on their deathbed.

"Not everyone wants to die, Dazai." The voice sounded from behind him, and he could hear the creak of floorboards as someone shifted. He recognized the voice, of course he would, it was a voice he'd never forget, one that always remained at the back of his mind, a guide to his actions.

He didn't answer. He knew it was unnecessary.

"Whoever that ambulance is for may have a family. People who care." The voice wasn't chastising or cruel, just the usual mellow, deep tone.

It's not like having people who care can prevent death, its inevitable. Those who have family just have the privilege of having someone to mourn them.

Once again, Dazai withheld from responding. He knew it wasn't real, that Oda wasn't behind him giving him a talk on death and loss, that it was just his cruel mind playing uncalled for tricks on him while deprived of rest.

Nonetheless, it hurt.

"Odasaku..." Dazai breathed, not to the image behind him put up by his mind, but just to the open air. A statement.

"Dazai." The voice replied, and Dazai once again heard shifting, only for the blanket at his back to shift and pull.

When he's hallucinated I'm the past, they've always been incredibly complex, hard to distinguished sights, sounds and sensations, and this time it's no different.

It doesn't make it hurt any less, though.

The body, warm as if it were real flesh with blood pulsing through, keeping it alive, sidled up behind him, lying down and throwing an arm around his waist. It was a position he'd found himself in with Odasaku-- the real Odasaku, not some image his mind had created-- many times, their breaths soft and shallow as they'd indulged in one another's presence, completely undisturbed and with thought.