Suspicions
Dazai kicks the leg of his desk with a sigh, turning his head around to look at his, what he likes to call, minimalistic room. Which is a cramped place with a stiff bed, an old desk, and a closed tucked away at the corner of his room to store his outfits – which were personally hand-picked by his doctor, mind you.
Or was it Boss now?
Whatever, he can’t be bothered to look into style or try to pick out something for himself. Even if he did, he would get the same thing Mori would have chosen for him.
He grunts, picking up a small but heavy briefcase that stored his clothing and school books for his transitioning of living, he’ll still be needing those as physical information about the magic community of course. He doesn’t know why Mori can’t just keep them and he doubts his third year at Hogwarts will be arriving. The Department Of Education can cease this moment to write his absence as being banished from the magical community. At the reminder, a pang of disappointment suddenly hits him –he hates it. Why was his chest heaving with a longing feeling? He mentally curses himself for having gotten all sentimental with a bunch of schoolchildren,
Mori’s words echoed through his head: Attachments hold no place in the Port Mafia.
The brunette forces himself to swallow his dismay. This development would be a turn for the better. He could recollect himself as well as polish up his inhospitable demeanour in order to be Mori’s perfect tool. His stay in Hogwarts has lowered his guard a great deal, his traitorous heart –which he has no idea why it suddenly sprang up– this as an opportunity to act up against his superior brain. He wishes he didn’t have such human emotions; who knows if the young executive was ever one to begin with. Humans have real desires filled with hope, but Dazai does not. His blood-stained hands did not deserve to dirty such a white, pure cloth that hugged children and adults alike from the thrashing cold wind. Rejecting Dazai to freeze to death. Perhaps that’d be a good way to die; the snow builds up to an annoying amount during the winter in Japan. Maybe he can dig himself a hole to lie in, paying someone to cover him back up like a coffin for his frosted body to be found somewhere in the early springs when he’s long gone. The thought almost brought a smile to his lips. He tucked the idea into the back of his head for when winter rolls around.
He headed for the door, taking one last look at his old room before setting off for his new room with a huff. It shouldn’t even be considered a room; it’s a shipping container! A filthy one at that!
Dazai pulled a face at the memory of Mori suddenly leading him to a dump on the outskirts of Yokohama, happily introducing him to an empty shipping container as his new room. Well, perhaps it wasn’t completely empty... still! A single desk, a mattress, and a single hanging lightbulb weren’t much now, were they? When he was starting to enjoy his freedom as an executive too!
Exiting his poor excuse of an apartment, he trekked his way to the dump yard he now calls his house. Not home, mind you, he could never have a home, a place of comfort much less belonging. It was too good to be true for the likes of him, who send gifts to death daily in bountiful bundles. He’s practically doing the Grim Reaper’s job for him! All he asks for is a visit, but alas, it never comes! How ungrateful!
He made his way towards his shipping container, depending on nothing more than his memory as a set of directions. He needed nothing else to locate the hovel. He occasionally looked at the sunset over the horizon of the sea, the sun’s rays using the sky and clouds as a canvas of hues of orange and purple fading into each other, Dazai didn’t look like the type of person to sit and enjoy sunsets and he really was not. It was quite literally an everyday thing. His nose scrunched up at the putrid smell of the dump yard. Entering his shipping container before, he dropped his suitcase carelessly on the floor next to his ‘bed,’ immediately collapsing on his sole mattress face-first. He turns his head to the head, staring blankly at the thin metal wall before reaching for his briefcase.
Sitting up with a groan to dig through his belongings before pulling out a stack of letters, his brain hasn’t the slightest clue why he’s conserving them; it only brought a bittersweet taste to his mouth, with a wave of nostalgia engulfing him afterwards. If Mori were to see him so wedded to going over them like air, he’d surely toss them into the fire, forever taunting him for becoming so lenient and overindulgent. He clenches the paper, his fingers leaving small wrinkles in their wake before tossing the stack into a corner of the shipping container. Curling up into a ball as he plopped himself down on the naked mattress, he considered throwing Mori’s coat over him as a makeshift blanket, conversely, he shuddered in disgust at the mere thought.
He closed his eyes, slowing his breathing down to perfectly match that of a sleeping man. Do not mistake his performance for genuine slumber like many before have; for him to sleep effortlessly without popping some sleeping pills is to find an owl hunting during the day.
__________
Dazai jolted awake at the sound of a knock on his door. He must’ve dozed off to a quick nap. He frowns in disapproval of his own languished senses, remembering when he couldn’t sleep or even rest a wink in the Slytherin dorms. The mere sound of someone breathing in the same room as him kept him restless. The solitude and security of the gang room have spoilt him too much.
He sits up smoothly, looking over to his agape door to find the sickeningly sweet smile of his doctor. Or boss? He does not know, but he’ll settle with ‘Boss.’
“Dazai-kun, are you enjoying your stay here?” The middle-aged man coos.
Dazai rolled his eyes—well, eye now, he doesn’t think his left eye will ever be functional after the incident with Father. The audacity of the doctor to have assigned him an old metal box, nonetheless try to justify his living here afterwards.
“Why’re you here?” Dazai bit back, earning a chuckle from Mori.
“I can’t visit my dear Executive?”
The younger’s eyes narrowed, “spit it out.”
Mori sighed in a show of amusement, expecting no less from his dear executive. “I was only dropping by to inform you about your third year at Hogwarts.”
Dazai paused at the latter words, his third year at Hogwarts? Immediately the bandage-covered mafioso dove into his already hundred of theories. There was no question that this was another one of Mori-san’s ploys to benefit him in the end, what was there left at Hogwarts other than the death of the old wizard: Albus Dumbledore? Then it hit it: Voldmold. Valdmore? Or was it Vladimir? He couldn’t care to remember the name of a face that looked like that of a fish made of clay, he’ll just call him Vold-mold, he did resemble mucor mold so it was quite an appropriate name.
“ –Remember,” Dazai snapped out of his thoughts at the doctor’s voice, “attachments hold no place in the mafia.”
The brunette’s spine straightened, looking down at his glossy black shoes as he fought back a tempting ‘I know’ at the back of his throat. When he looked back up, the doctor had already disappeared, leaving Dazai to be swallowed up by the sea of thoughts on why he was returning to Hogwarts, he was sure his boss would prohibit it due to his little attachments… He scowled, why must that slimy doctor always leave him off on cliffhangers just like the past two years when he threw him into a whole new world of wizards and magic? Perhaps he enjoys watching him squirm and struggle to meet his expectations, and the worst part is that he doesn’t even try to hide how much amusement he draws out from his struggles. Dazai doesn’t want to disappoint him, no matter how much he hates him he still can’t bear that look of disappointment as he’s forced to listen to him recite the same thing.
“I’m disappointed Shuuji, I expected more from but I suppose I overestimated you.”
It digs deep into his mind, leaving him mute and devoid of life for the rest of the day. He’s embarrassed that his words could take such a toll on him, he’s not supposed to be affected by a single sentence. He doesn’t do sensitivity, which is a privilege only granted to children, he’s seen things, done things, that no person would ever fathom even in the landscape of their dreams.
He flopped his head onto his mattress with a frustrated whimper, his scrawny body bouncing lightly at the springs compacted inside. Reluctantly bringing his knees to his chest he hugged his thin legs, closing his eyes. If someone were to take a picture of him doing this to hang it around the Port Mafia HQ he’d jump off the roof on the same day without hesitance. After inserting a bullet in between the eyes of whoever was audacious enough to make such a shameful photo public, of course.
He knows he should be feeling relief, but all he feels is a headache forming between his eye, (NOT eyes btw). It would’ve been easier for him to rid himself of everybody when he was ready and already accepting of it like this, The Hellhounds along with Professor Snape, another year spent with them will only make the final leave more difficult if not agonizing. He tried to sink impossibly deeper into his mattress at the thought of the inevitable ordeal, this is a new torture method of Mori-san, he’s positively sure about it. Alas, things like this that are out of his control never seem to comply with his words, such bad luck looming above him like a cloud neglecting him of the sun’s rays. Maybe he is cursed, there is no other explanation for his suffering. He is cursed, a curse from fate itself as a way of smoothing life’s clear favouritism in his face with a taunting laugh keeping him from getting some shut-eye, never regaining consciousness again. Such bad luck, he is not even living, simply existing like a particle in the air with no other purpose than to float around before meeting its end by a fire or something of the more destructive category.
Reopening his eyes, he was met with a rather dim setting. It didn’t faze him. Too tired to stand up to tug on the string of the lightbulb to cast lighting upon the interior of his shipping container, he lay awake, perhaps another kid his age would be afraid of the dark, as ridiculous as that sounds to him.
Dazai was not afraid of the dark, after all, he was born in it. Rather, he is afraid of the light.
__________
Blood. Blood staining the ground in an enlarging puddle of slick red, slipping through the cracks on the floor and seeping through the creveasses between the tiles. Like a river proceeding its way through a dam. He stands still, staring down at Blaise with a horrified expression. He did not know why, he had seen much more gory scenes but the blood of Blaise made his stomach drop miles into a bottomless pit. Dazai stares at the puddle of blood, then the blood on his own hands.
‘It’s Blaise’s.’ His mind numbly registers without a single second thought.
“See Shuuji?” He flinched at the sudden voice, his gaze snapping from his stained hands towards Mori. “You cannot love nor be loved, that is your curse, the curse of forever shame and loneliness.”
The older male stepped forth, his footsteps obnoxiously loud as if someone were pounding his brain. A hand cupped Dazai’s– no. Shuuji’s cheek with a following smile that was so sweet it’d made your teeth ache. Like the cake at a birthday party that you force down in the sake of being polite. The shorter male did not move, his brain or body was too devoid of life to do anything. Exactly like he was before meeting Mori: A frail boy whom knows not what to do other than wait for it all to stop, but why wait for something to happen when you can take it into your own hands?
That cold December day on the 10th, if only he hadn’t been delivered to Mori in time, where he’ll soon never rid himself of the cruel doctor.
__________