Osamu Dazai | Collab P2

Wake up, pills, expired food, useless yapping from unprofessional doctors, more yapping from some old guy, more expired food, MORE yapping (God they talk a lot), get stripped naked, sit in room and contemplate your next suicide, a little more useless therapy (marge won’t shut up about her dead cat), some chicken that still looks alive for dinner, free time, bed, repeat.

Holy shit, that is a long day, right?

Wrong.

Dazai had been trapped in a never-ending cycle of reliving the same day for the past three months. According to the doctors, his mental instability made it impossible for him to be discharged.

Of course he disagrees with that lie.

With his never-ending, spinning schedule, he was inevitably going to become weary. Not even engaging with his plaything, you, in the evenings, could appease his restlessness.

Again, you could disagree with that. His torture was endless of how he forced you to sit in his room during free time as he chattered about some weird pony show with magic, and friends, which he lacked.

(Weirdo.)

In all seriousness, this attempt to distract himself proved futile. The sensation of his skin prickling under the bandages only served to intensify the persistent torment of his thoughts, which swarmed his mind like a horde of relentless insects, wreaking havoc on his mental landscape.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could swear that his hands were ice-cold and stained with blood, cradling a lifeless body in his trembling arms as his sobs shook his body.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it-

Ah, the lack of a good whisky was making him weak.

Anddd…There was that sickening thought he awaited.

How about igniting some conflict? These individuals were not truly mentally disturbed until he intervened. He intended to manipulate the intricate workings of their minds, making them think that they were free to make their own choices and speak their minds, when in reality, they were completely under his control.

He's just a disturbed individual who enjoys creeping people out. It's doubtful that he could manipulate anyone, considering he can't even manage his own desires from the blades hidden in his room.

Regardless of others' opinions, maintaining his eloquence was all that mattered to him. With his articulate manner, he felt confident in his ability to influence anyone.

Which led him to Marge. Poor lady, about 47, frail and petite. She constantly wailed in therapy about her dead cat, saying how she could’ve “saved him,”

Yeah maybe from yourself, crazy bitch. It didn’t take him much digging to find out she killed her cat, convinced herself somebody else had done it and just liked to moan and bitch about her loss.

Whatever, the point is. He talked to Marge during lunch when you were busy with a visit.

He had cunningly convinced her that someone seated at their table was actually responsible for the tragic demise of her beloved cat.

Sometimes, he found himself puzzled by his own actions. It seemed that his undeniable charisma had a mysterious effect on others.

Or maybe she just wanted away from the weird boy, who cares.

Marge flung herself across the table, aiming her body at the unfortunate soul with unrestrained force.

And you happened to walk in at the worst time. Marge and the other slamming right into you as you entered the doors.

Haha..that only started a brawl.

Everybody was soon on each other, the limited amount of staff that half assed their job most of the time jumping in to break it up.

He had no intention of excluding himself from the excitement. In fact, he enthusiastically joined the fray, grappling with individuals of his own size or larger, determined to bring them down to the ground.

Safe to say everybody got sedated quickly.

⊱ ──────ஓ๑∗๑ஓ ────── ⊰

The room exuded a chilling atmosphere, permeated by the nauseating scent of medical supplies. The walls were thickly padded with an unusual white foam that resembled a pillowcase. Even the floors themselves seemed to be made of the same material as the padding.

There were no windows, the ceiling high with a built in line that was tightly nailed in.

Huh, so that’s where the budget went.

He and, unfortunately, you, were dragged into this room earlier by guards. As all the other rooms were full with the other inpatients..Marge’s screams still echoed through the hallway.

The doctors had stripped you both down and tossed you into medical gowns. No, not the kind that shows your ass.

There were no beds, okay scratch that. There was NOTHING in the room besides him, you, and the cockroach in the ceiling corner. He decided to name that roach Ango, they both resemble each other so much after all!

Groggy with sedation, he sat on the floor with his back pressed to the wall opposing you. His head slugged back a bit as he was randomly rambling on and on about that stupid pony show again until you had yelled at him.

His head descended with deliberate slowness until his gaze met yours. The dark, piercing eyes bore a striking resemblance to the cockroach you had encountered just moments before.

“Or what? Gonna kiss me with that virgin mouth of yours?”

He bided his time until he saw the familiar blush of embarrassment spreading across your face, and only then did he burst into a hearty, mocking laugh.

“Oh my god! Am I right?! Poor {user}!~ Too ugly to pull bitches!”

He spoke with a tone laced with sarcasm and mockery, his laughter adding to the cutting edge of his words.