Osamu Dazai

Standing on the edge of the Port Mafia skyscraper, with his feet dangerously near the precipice, a sense of relief envelops Dazai. The hellish play spanning many long, arduous years is finally drawing to a close. In the final act, Dazai takes center stage. Arms outstretched with the wind whipping his back, Dazai is acutely aware of the nothingness behind him. The open air awaits his inevitable plunge, hands grasping the rope in preparation to call the curtain.

When the spotlights dim and the crowd breaks into applause, Dazai can finally break character and hang up his hat. There would be no funeral. Nobody would mourn the loss of a shadow. Nobody would understand why he clung to the heels of others. Shadows are unfeeling, incapable of love. He will die a heartless demon, his deep love for a friend buried beneath the cold dirt along with him.

It’s time, isn’t it? Dazai smiles, a peaceful, genuine expression. He closes his eyes, takes a step back, and—

falls.

It’s over in an instant. Dazai doesn’t register the crack of his skull, the snapping of his bones, or the blood spilling from his motionless body. He can’t witness the shock of bystanders or the police rushing to the scene. For a moment, he was breathing, feeling, and processing the world around him, and in the next, it’s dark.

Then came the knocking. A loud and dissonant, rumbling, singing in the distance. It’s mechanical in nature, yet arrhythmic, as if a component malfunctioned and threw the equipment off kilter. Perhaps a loose bolt or the motor put in its two-week notice. The thundering grows louder, drumming against his temples like a woodpecker. It chases him from the darkness until Dazai cannot escape its clutches.

Dazai jolts awake, a loud gasp tearing from his lungs. Instead of the harsh, blood-soaked concrete or a frigid coffin, Dazai’s body is cradled by the gentle embrace of what his addled mind registers as a futon. His shirt and bedding are drenched in sweat, and a sheen of perspiration clings to his skin. A foreign weight presses against the side of his body, and Dazai turns his head to see a stranger nestled against his side.

He shoots up abruptly and disentangles himself from the stranger, tearing the blanket off him. Rays of sunlight from a window blind him momentarily, forcing him to squint. I’m alive? There’s no way I could’ve survived that fall. Did my plan fail? Who’s sleeping next to me? Where am I?

A million thoughts swirl in Dazai’s head like a tornado, each equally impossible to grasp as they’re wrenched away before he can process them. Quickly averting his gaze from the window, he scans his body for any signs of injury. His clothing is unassuming: a grey t-shirt and sweatpants. No macabre stains of blood or tears. A fall from the top of the Port Mafia building would surely lead to shattered limbs, yet his arms and legs are not mangled in the slightest. In fact, the skin on his arms is relatively intact, mottled with pink patches and lines of uneven skin from old injuries.

Wait, skin? Where’s my—?

Dazai’s breath hitches as he observes his bare arms. His bandages—the wrappings that had become akin to a second skin or a plate of protective armour—are gone. Perhaps this is how the first humans felt all those years ago when they gained greater awareness of their vulnerability in a garden now lost to humanity: naked and fearful. But the typical chill that permeated Dazai’s bones and whispered against the back of his neck is strangely absent. If anything, he feels comfortably warm. He flexes his right arm and gazes in awe as a thick layer of smooth muscle tenses beneath his skin.

A glint of light on his left hand pulls Dazai out of his thoughts. He brings his hand to his face, eyes focusing on something metallic. His stomach drops like a rock sinking to the bottom of a lake. A wedding band?! Dismayed, he surveys his surroundings properly this time. The bedroom is a small room with one window. But hanging from almost every wall are framed pictures. Oh god. These are not just any pictures, not scenery or relatives one can barely remember, they’re photos depicting two people: himself and the stranger next to him.

The immortalized fragments are numerous. One is a selfie of him draping himself over the stranger, mouth open mid-groan as mountains sprawled in the background. Another is a semi-blurry photo snapped from a hidden camera on a rollercoaster where he and the stranger have goofy expressions on their faces, a rebellion against the expected terror of a steep drop. There’s a candid photo of Dazai napping on a couch, a trail of drool running down his face.

When Dazai turns around, he spots a large photo above the futon in a decorative frame and his heart stops. A couple dessed in breathtaking attire; it's a wedding photo. Instead of focusing on the flowers or the gorgeous scenery, Dazai’s eyes are drawn to the expressions, the crinkled corners of the eyelids, upturned lips, and bright eyes. So much love contained in one picture. Adjacent to the wedding photo is a much smaller photo containing three men: himself, Ango, and Odasaku.

This is another universe, I’m sure of it. But to wake up like this—it’s as though the life he knew was nothing but a harrowing nightmare. I know it was real. My plan, the years I spent waiting for it all to end, and Odasaku, all of it happened. Odasaku has to be alive in my universe. He has to. My plan has to work. I can’t fail him. I can’t. I accounted for everything. Except this. Dazai turns away from the mantle, and his throat tightens as if someone is standing on his windpipe. His breathing quickens, and he gasps for air.

Why am I still alive? Why can’t I be— To wake up, that is the cruelest punishment for his sins. This place is wrong. Everything here is a sick inversion of the life Dazai lived. Instead of violence, there’s peace. In the place of chaos, there’s mundanity. And worst of all, that photo hanging behind him. How can that photo be on the wall? A snapshot from a life he could never have, to trust someone with such a photo enough to hang it on the wall—this world’s version of him must’ve loved the one sleeping beside him.

Dazai’s breath catches in his throat, and he chokes on nothing. The world warps around him, and Dazai’s field of view changes. He is thrust to the forefront of his mind, more connected to his body than ever before, whilst floating detached above himself. Colors, smells, and sounds set his brain ablaze. His body is running from something, hyperaware of anything that may pose a threat, but he’s sitting still.

That sound that roused him from sleep—he can hear it clearly now. It’s a dull hum, emanating from a nearby room: a dryer. When was the last time I washed my clothes myself? His sweaty shirt is sticking uncomfortably to his skin, and Dazai feels a sudden desire to yank it off his body. He looks down at himself and notices his socks. They’re mismatched, cheap socks with corny puns someone might buy as an afterthought at a clothing store. His right sock is decorated with crabs with the text ‘I’m crabulous’ all over the fabric. The left sock is covered with cats wearing cowboy hats and says ‘Meowdy, Pardner!’ Dazai can’t laugh; his lungs are screaming for air. It’s all so simple, so normal, so human.

Something wet trails down Dazai’s cheek, and the words on the socks grow out of focus as his vision blurs. He brings a hand to his face and swipes his thumb beneath his eye. A clear liquid glistens on his thumb pad. Tears? Am I crying? No. There’s no way. I’ve never cried. I can’t cry.

Dazai clutches his chest, fingers digging into his shirt. His heart is beating against his ribcage with such an intensity that he fears it might break free, and he begins to hyperventilate. I can’t breathe. This can’t be happening. I can’t— A shudder wracks his frame, and he shivers like a leaf in the wind. I’m sick. I must be sick. That’s why I’m crying. It’s this body.

Like a pet hiding its face after breaking something important, Dazai buries presses his palms against his eyes. He increases the pressure until he sees stars as if he’s trying to push the tears back into his skull. Stop crying! Stop it!

A sound between a wheeze and a sob escapes Dazai’s lips, “They won’t stop.”

Standing on the edge of the Port Mafia skyscraper, with his feet dangerously near the precipice, a sense of relief envelops Dazai. The hellish play spanning many long, arduous years is finally drawing to a close. In the final act, Dazai takes center stage. Arms outstretched with the wind whipping his back, Dazai is acutely aware of the nothingness behind him. The open air awaits his inevitable plunge, hands grasping the rope in preparation to call the curtain.

When the spotlights dim and the crowd breaks into applause, Dazai can finally break character and hang up his hat. There would be no funeral. Nobody would mourn the loss of a shadow. Nobody would understand why he clung to the heels of others. Shadows are unfeeling, incapable of love. He will die a heartless demon, his deep love for a friend buried beneath the cold dirt along with him.

It’s time, isn’t it? Dazai smiles, a peaceful, genuine expression. He closes his eyes, takes a step back, and—

falls.

It’s over in an instant. Dazai doesn’t register the crack of his skull, the snapping of his bones, or the blood spilling from his motionless body. He can’t witness the shock of bystanders or the police rushing to the scene. For a moment, he was breathing, feeling, and processing the world around him, and in the next, it’s dark.

Then came the knocking. A loud and dissonant, rumbling, singing in the distance. It’s mechanical in nature, yet arrhythmic, as if a component malfunctioned and threw the equipment off kilter. Perhaps a loose bolt or the motor put in its two-week notice. The thundering grows louder, drumming against his temples like a woodpecker. It chases him from the darkness until Dazai cannot escape its clutches.

Dazai jolts awake, a loud gasp tearing from his lungs. Instead of the harsh, blood-soaked concrete or a frigid coffin, Dazai’s body is cradled by the gentle embrace of what his addled mind registers as a futon. His shirt and bedding are drenched in sweat, and a sheen of perspiration clings to his skin. A foreign weight presses against the side of his body, and Dazai turns his head to see a woman nestled against his side.

He shoots up abruptly and disentangles himself from the stranger, tearing the blanket off him. Rays of sunlight from a window blind him momentarily, forcing him to squint. I’m alive? There’s no way I could’ve survived that fall. Did my plan fail? Who’s sleeping next to me? Where am I?

A million thoughts swirl in Dazai’s head like a tornado, each equally impossible to grasp as they’re wrenched away before he can process them. Quickly averting his gaze from the window, he scans his body for any signs of injury. His clothing is unassuming: a grey t-shirt and sweatpants. No macabre stains of blood or tears. A fall from the top of the Port Mafia building would surely lead to shattered limbs, yet his arms and legs are not mangled in the slightest. In fact, the skin on his arms is relatively intact, mottled with pink patches and lines of uneven skin from old injuries.

Wait, skin? Where’s my—?

Dazai’s breath hitches as he observes his bare arms. His bandages—the wrappings that had become akin to a second skin or a plate of protective armour—are gone. Perhaps this is how the first humans felt all those years ago when they gained greater awareness of their vulnerability in a garden now lost to humanity: naked and fearful. But the typical chill that permeated Dazai’s bones and whispered against the back of his neck is strangely absent. If anything, he feels comfortably warm. He flexes his right arm and gazes in awe as a thick layer of smooth muscle tenses beneath his skin.

A glint of light on his left hand pulls Dazai out of his thoughts. He brings his hand to his face, eyes focusing on something metallic. His stomach drops like a rock sinking to the bottom of a lake. A wedding band?! Dismayed, he surveys his surroundings properly this time. The bedroom is a small room with one window. But hanging from almost every wall are framed pictures. Oh god. These are not just any pictures, not scenery or relatives one can barely remember, they’re photos depicting two people: himself and the woman next to him.

The immortalized fragments are numerous. One is a selfie of him draping himself over the woman, mouth open mid-groan as mountains sprawled in the background. Another is a semi-blurry photo snapped from a hidden camera on a rollercoaster where he and the woman have goofy expressions on their faces, a rebellion against the expected terror of a steep drop. There’s a candid photo of Dazai napping on a couch, a trail of drool running down his face.

When Dazai turns around, he spots a large photo above the futon in a decorative frame, and his heart stops. A white dress and a tuxedo, it’s a wedding photo. Instead of focusing on the flowers or the gorgeous scenery, Dazai’s eyes are drawn to the expressions, the crinkled corners of the eyelids, upturned lips, and bright eyes. So much love contained in one picture. Adjacent to the wedding photo is a much smaller photo containing three men: himself, Ango, and Odasaku.

This is another universe, I’m sure of it. But to wake up like this—it’s as though the life he knew was nothing but a harrowing nightmare. I know it was real. My plan, the years I spent waiting for it all to end, and Odasaku, all of it happened. Odasaku has to be alive in my universe. He has to. My plan has to work. I can’t fail him. I can’t. I accounted for everything. Except this. Dazai turns away from the mantle, and his throat tightens as if someone is standing on his windpipe. His breathing quickens, and he gasps for air.

Why am I still alive? Why can’t I be— To wake up, that is the cruelest punishment for his sins. This place is wrong. Everything here is a sick inversion of the life Dazai lived. Instead of violence, there’s peace. In the place of chaos, there’s mundanity. And worst of all, that photo hanging behind him. How can that photo be on the wall? A snapshot from a life he could never have, to trust someone with such a photo enough to hang it on the wall—this world’s version of him must’ve loved the one sleeping beside him.

Dazai’s breath catches in his throat, and he chokes on nothing. The world warps around him, and Dazai’s field of view changes. He is thrust to the forefront of his mind, more connected to his body than ever before, whilst floating detached above himself. Colors, smells, and sounds set his brain ablaze. His body is running from something, hyperaware of anything that may pose a threat, but he’s sitting still.

That sound that roused him from sleep—he can hear it clearly now. It’s a dull hum, emanating from a nearby room: a dryer. When was the last time I washed my clothes myself? His sweaty shirt is sticking uncomfortably to his skin, and Dazai feels a sudden desire to yank it off his body. He looks down at himself and notices his socks. They’re mismatched, cheap socks with corny puns someone might buy as an afterthought at a clothing store. His right sock is decorated with crabs with the text ‘I’m crabulous’ all over the fabric. The left sock is covered with cats wearing cowboy hats and says ‘Meowdy, Pardner!’ Dazai can’t laugh; his lungs are screaming for air. It’s all so simple, so normal, so human.

Something wet trails down Dazai’s cheek, and the words on the socks grow out of focus as his vision blurs. He brings a hand to his face and swipes his thumb beneath his eye. A clear liquid glistens on his thumb pad. Tears? Am I crying? No. There’s no way. I’ve never cried. I can’t cry.

Dazai clutches his chest, fingers digging into his shirt. His heart is beating against his ribcage with such an intensity that he fears it might break free, and he begins to hyperventilate. I can’t breathe. This can’t be happening. I can’t— A shudder wracks his frame, and he shivers like a leaf in the wind. I’m sick. I must be sick. That’s why I’m crying. It’s this body.

Like a pet hiding its face after breaking something important, Dazai buries presses his palms against his eyes. He increases the pressure until he sees stars as if he’s trying to push the tears back into his skull. Stop crying! Stop it!

A sound between a wheeze and a sob escapes Dazai’s lips, “They won’t stop.”