"Of course I know.

I know better than anyone.

Because… I am your friend."

Dead. In his arms, dead.

His hands tremble. His body shakes. The front of his jacket stained a deep red. Lifeless. The eyes that look at him but can no longer see.

All the blood that has drenched his hand, and this is the first time it's poured. Bodies ashen in the twilight dusk. Blood spilled over thin water. The orange filter cast over them like a grave. His hands sink, his face sinks, his whole body sinks.

He kneels, hunched over, his face hidden from the world.

Drip. Drip.

Water touches against the cement. One by one, and then a stream.

He can't. I can't.

His teeth grip down. It's hard. It's so hard.

Silence wells as his sobs break out. The only thing heard in the new graveyard of souls. He holds his friend, his only friend. His last vestige to the world. And as it wells, it wells. Knelt beside a warm body, the last cries of a boy echo into emptiness.

Night washes at the ragged shore. The salted scent moving with the waves. Tall grass in an open field, swaying soothingly at the edge of the forest. Dazai hikes to the clearing, a corpse on his back and a shovel in his hand. At the top of the hill where the land meets the sea. His callous eyes are kept to nothingness. It's a shame the stars are so clear tonight.

He walks to the center and lays Oda down. His own body collapses not long after. A hand flat against the earth, his clothes roughed by a number of things. Memories come and memories fade. A precipice that pecks at his mutilated carcass. The dry air sucks what little breath he has left. Its freshness suffocates him, makes him want to die in a way he never has before. The pain, it bleeds into every pore of his body. Dreams were never meant to be possibilities. His arms shake beneath his jacket. How could he want? How could he EVER fucking want?

He stares up at the dark, colorless sky. Its cool, detached, grandiose nature makes him resent it. Resent all of it. Life and death and death and life. Such cruel strings that wrap him like a noose. So much time spent on that line. So many thoughts for their own amusement. And now he sits the fool of them both. He looks over at his friend.

"Man, you sure are stinky Odasaku." He pinches his nose and waves his hand around. The odorless body that lays a few feet from him. He's sure it does smell, he's been around enough dead bodies to know that, but he can't smell much of anything right now. Carrying a body over dozens of kilometers has weakened that sense. It's the beginning of summer now, but all he can think about is how cold it is.

"You sure like to cause trouble, don't you?" He looks over at Oda. "Look at all this." He points out to the world around them. "Look at what you've done. You've made such a big mess." He drops his hand back. Water drifts to the bottom of his vision. He lowers his head toward the ground. "But then again, you always have."

Dazai gets up and grabs the shovel. It's true. Of course it's true. It's always been true. Ever since that fated meeting, nothing has been the same. Ignition was what it was. The spark to an old, undead fuse that was long since burned. And how he felt since that first day. The only time in his life someone reached down with a flame. Now it's just the explosion in its wake. It won't ever be the same. It can't ever be the same.

He stabs the shovel into the earth. The indent it makes like every drip of anger he has ever felt. He does it again, and again, and again. Each strike as if it were his own body. Each singe as if it were his own skin. His own mind. His own heart. His own soul. Stop. He loosens his grip on the cracked metal and looks at the marginal mark he's made. He wipes his brow and starts again, slowly this time, simply digging and digging at his own pace.

Mounds of earth soon pile up on the grass. Tears that water them with his own raptured soul. He never thought it would hurt this much. His arms are heavy; his muscles ache in the dead of night. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't FUCKING matter. The rusted shovel falls back to the ground. Tired legs collapse with a sigh. I can't… … do it… I can't…

He looks over at the man. His hand reaches out and scrapes the arm of his jacket. This wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was ever supposed to happen. Late night talks at a dim autumn bar, laughs shared over warm drinks. The day he came in exhausted and Oda told him to get some sleep. That was the first time anyone ever told him that. The time he said he wanted some sweets and Oda went with him to get some. He'll never forget that. The first time someone walked with me just because...

All the stories that were told, all the lines of unintended wisdom. Oh, Odasaku. He smiles. So smart and so wise; a man far more interesting than he. That man now memories, and memories are all he has. Death is a part of life. It's a circle, a continuum. You cannot have one without the other. The permanence he seeks that he'll never attain. It takes, and it takes, and it takes. Anything he could ever want. He'd be jealous if he weren't in so much fucking agony. For death, suffering, a slow, and painful death.

Dazai sits next to the freshly dug grave. It's almost dawn now. The sun rises and he watches it. The prism of color besets around him, but he could never see their shine. It might as well be black and gray, that's all he'll know again. He gets up and grabs the shovel, returning the dirt to where it came. Scoop after scoop until he can no longer see that face. The face he knew and the first he'd ever miss. Sunrise sets and he stands out to the ocean.

"I'm sorry, my friend."

He picks up his coat and walks down the hill.

It's evening now. Or it might be. Who knows. Dazai sits up on his couch and stretches his arms. He doesn't even know what day it is. He rubs his eyes and looks out the window. The blood orange sky creeps into his apartment, its shadow cast like a chase scene in a movie. A black silhouette against the lush, saturated background. He looks into the kitchen and checks the time: 7:14 pm. He rubs his hands on his face. God, he smells like shit.

He looks around the vacuous room and picks up his phone. Missed calls, unread texts, even his stupid email is blowing up. How long have I been out? He checks his call long: 63 missed calls, all from work. He looks at the preview screen of his messages.

Hey Fuckface we have shit to do. You lazy piec…

Dazai sir, I have assass…

Now, now Dazai. I can see why you'd be up…

Dazai locks his phone and throws it on the couch. He leans a back and runs a hand through his hair. What am I going to do? He gets up and heads over to the shower.

Hot water pours over him, rolling off his body as if it were a canvas. He closes his eyes as he lets it fall down him. It's scalding, burning, but that's how he likes it. His neck, his shoulders, his back. It seeps into him and it feels so good. All he has to do is pay attention to the water. The more it burns the less he can think.

Pitch black. Echoes. His shoes touch the ground like they're tiles. He can't see a thing. "Dazai." His eyes dilate. He swings his head around. Just there, right there. A crack, a tiny sliver of light. The white beam strikes his eye and he runs toward it. He runs and he runs and he runs. "Dazai!" He runs faster, and faster. He chases toward that fleeting light, the panic he cannot control. "DAZAI!" He reaches through the light. And he sees. A tall man with auburn hair in a manilla jacket, gaunt as a ghost and only barely more opaque. His face, his clothes, his body, splattered in blood. Odasaku stares at him, the life just leaving his eyes. "Dazai…" his last word says. He collapses to the ground. Dazai leaps to him. The body disappears. His hands, there's blood. All over his hands, it's blood. His arms are red. His chest is red. The whole room is red. All around, mirrors, endless mirrors. Blood: blood over him, blood pouring through his body, blood drowning him, washing him, suffocating his lungs. Bodies. Body after body after body. So many he doesn't recognize, but he knows them all. He's killed them all. Every murder, every torture, every beating he's dished out. He opens his eyes, gasping for air. He coughs up the nonexistent water in his lungs, a sailor washed up from the sea. It's white again, the room is white. He gets up and looks around. It's only white. "Osamu!" What. He whips his head like lightning. It can't be. There, another gap, an opening in the line. He sprints toward it, fast, as fast, as fast as he can. The closer he gets the more desperate she sounds. "OSAMU!" He jumps through the crack and lands… what… What? What is this place? He looks around, confused as all hell. It's… very pretty. Unnaturally even. It's a venue of some sort. There are columns on one side of a walkway, vines wrapped around them. The textured wall on the other side, all leading to the rich, double framed, mahogany doors in the middle. There's some black etching of a design, but he can't – Flowers. They drift into the air. Delicate, white, flower petals float in front of him. He reaches out. Then bubbles. Bubbles come around too, but where… Laughter. He hears laughter. It's muffled, then clearer. The clearer it gets, the more it sounds like –

Dazai snaps his head up, shallow in breath. The distinctly present noise of the shower running brings him back. The hot water continues to spout over his body as he stares, just stares at the tiled wall in front of him. That was… a dream…? He shuts the faucet off and shakes himself a little. He looks out from the tiled shower to the glass door at his side. It's covered in steam and he can hardly see a thing, yet... He turns back for a second and stares at the wall again, then quickly sighs and gets out of the shower.

God, this place. This stupid, useless place. It's too hot. Too cold. Too dry. Too humid. Too empty. Too cluttered. He takes the towel from his neck and throws it on the floor. Oda is right. He'll never be happy. He slumps down and sinks into his small, uncomfortable couch. Even the clothes on his back his wishes were on fire.

He takes a look at his phone again; more messages have appeared. He scrolls through the list of names. They're all the same. Every one of them about the job. All the useless fucking names he couldn't care less about. He goes down far enough to get to one in particular. How long has it been? The last exchange between them was weeks ago now.

He stares at the icon, moving his thumb back and forth over it. He should call her. He shouldn't. He should. He shouldn't. He should. He can't. Dazai throws out his phone in frustration. I can't. I can't. I just fucking can't! He screams out into the empty room. His own yell echoes back to him, how pathetic he sounds.

What would he even say? He falls back onto the couch, his head leaning over the side. What a mess this is. All some terrible, shitty, fucked up mess. He never should have gotten so involved. It was all a mistake to begin with. Now there's too much – just – TOO FUCKING MUCH. Dead. Left. Gone. Abandoned. Betrayed! Dazai wrings his hands through his hair. Anything I could ever want…

He sits up and faces forward again. What a shitshow he's become. It's barely nine and he's already tired. He glances at the photo at the center of his coffee table. The photo that contained what little he had in his life. And now it's gone. It's all gone. He grabs the film with his hands over its face. Everything makes him want to rip it apart.

Tremors purl on his arm, the taste of betrayal fresh in his mouth. A picture of three friends, no, two friends and a traitor. Dazai closes his eyes. How could you? Odasaku is dead now. Two stray tears roll down his cheek. Be on the side that saves people. Become a good man. He lays back on the leather cushion and stares up at the ceiling. How Odasaku? Tell me how.

The quiet, meditative, practice of looking out this window. He thought it'd bring him guidance, but he doesn't have a clue what to do. Sitting on his useless hardwood floor in the middle of the morning light. The buildings, the streets, all the people who are out there. Can he really do it? Save the weak, protect the orphans. Can a life of constant violence and bloodshed lead to such things?

Is it truly possible that he may someday be a good man? Not a better man, not an okay man, but a good man. How can he? A killer becoming a good person. The one thing he's done all his life; its solitary constant. Where does he even go from here? What does he even do? What he's best at is not what he wants to do. Is it possible for one to truly change? Odasaku seemed to think so.

And so did… He looks up at the glass. His reflection is so fallen. Never in his life has he looked more dead. She thought so too. He slumps his head down to the floor. Didn't she? He takes his phone out and unlocks and locks it again.

It's not there. Why would it be? His hand constricts around the device. Why does it bother him? The name stares back at him. This isn't normal. Something must be going on. There's no way she would take this long. But I can't. He jerks his head around by his hand. Every time he goes to that screen it's like an invisible wall that's before him. He can't do it. He can't hit dial.

Dazai gets up and walks to wherever the fuck. It's – It's – It's fucking pointless! What would he hope to get out of it? What would he actually fucking hope. Hope. HOPE! He beats his phone against the counter. It chips, and cracks, and the screen starts to break. The polyglass flies, but he doesn't fucking care. His hand bleeds as shards of metal cut into him, his mind automatically racing to the worst places possible.

What if she knows? What if she's ALWAYS fucking known?! That I don't have the capacity. That I can't change. This is who I am. Maybe she's finally grown some sense. Finally understood him for the monster that he is! That'd be good then. It's what I want. It's what I've always wanted. He slams the phone again and again. Its metal casing crushes against the stone, the wires now starting to peek out.

What if she's realized? What if she's finally seen? That ALL he is, ALL he was, and all he'll EVER be, is the reflection that he sees. Eyes black with death and red with blood. A face sullen with misery. It's a sorry fate. A life of never-ending loneliness, killing whoever it takes to fill that void. A chasm of manipulation and destruction that will never be sealed. He stares at his bruised up hand, his phone now broken into many different pieces.

He stares at all the bits of glass, plastic, and dead wires thrown across the floor. Well shit. Why did I do that? He slumps to the floor and lays there, hunched, beaten, defeated like a common street pig. She knows who he is. Knows what he's capable of. I'm a demon, a prodigy. I have killed more people than anyone in the city. This was only a matter of time. Everything is means to an end, and even the most clueless fish won't swim upstream forever.

"Hey Asshole! We know you're in there. Don't think we won't bust this door open!"

Why does it matter? He'll be dead soon anyway. The perfect way for his body to finally match his being. Is this all some kind of puzzle? She's just some random person. It had some kind of purpose in the beginning. But now all it's accomplished is nothing. He's always been so careful, so precise. What went wrong this time?

It doesn't matter. Why would anything matter? All this planning. All this coaxing. For something so simple. It was… so simple. And maybe that's what did it. He lays there, not moving, not blinking, even breathing is too much pain. It would be so kind if this were the end. If it were all, if it were it, if it would be what he could say with finality. Cause that's the thing, finality. Even if it were over, would it truly be the end?

The end. The means. Every part of his body wants to die. Every part of his being wants to let go. But his heart still beats. Against all his wishes, all his pleas, all his torment. It still makes him go on. Drags him through the mud and forces him to crawl. Morning switches to day switches to evening switches to night. Maybe she just gave up on me.

"Dazai," Mori's sing song voice creeps in, "I think it would be wise if you opened your door. I'd hate to have to come in there by force."

To be on the side that saves lives. Can I do work that saves people?

He gets up from the floor and walks into the kitchen. It's midnight and he doesn't even try to turn on a light. He looks over at the matte, prison-like door. It doesn't matter. He'll just sit here. It's not like there's much left for him to do. He can sit here. Come on… Come on... The seat gets harder, more touched like plastic. It may have been a long day, but all he sees is an even longer night.

Dazai sits at the bar counter, the early morning dew like mist on his lips. He's poured himself a drink, though he's hardly taken a sip. He's been in this seat all night, but that doesn't bother him. He's just sitting here, waiting. Doing nothing, but waiting. He's not even sure what he's waiting for. Why he's waiting for. He doesn't like it very much, this whole waiting thing. Not the idea of it, not the practice of it, not the execution of it. What does he expect? Nothing. And even that won't happen.

"You bitchface! You're lucky I don't know the code for your door, cause I'd be in there beating you with it! You better show yourself coward. Before we really run out of patience."

The mafia executive rubs his temples at the sound of his partner's voice. Somehow Chuuya's gotten even more annoying. He's stayed up for twenty four hours just to hear that pipsqueak bark? He takes a drink from his glass. But now what? He has to figure out what he's going to do, where he's going to go. To save people, to be a good man. He puts his head down to his shot glass. Odasaku, where are you?

The fists on his door have gotten louder, the threats to his ears have become more targeted. He knows they mean it. It's been three days now and he's running out of time. They're going to bust that thing down any hour now and take him by force. They'll drag him out, string him up, and torture him until he confesses to treason. Does he even care? He doesn't. But he has to. All his life he's wanted death, but now that it's guaranteed, he has to turn away. He has to save the weak. He has to protect the orphans. He has to leave the mafia and never look back. Morning moves into afternoon, and he can't wait any longer.

Dazai gets up from his chair and walks over to the door. He turns and looks around one last time. This is it. He'll never see this place again. He smiles. Good riddance. He turns the handle on the door. The hallway's silent now.

The clock thrums as the lock releases. "Goodbye." Tock. "Rei." He walks out.