eithne emer

Chuya felt irritated—could it be that at a moment like this, life would decide to mock him? Do he really not deserve to be buried properly, without any unnecessary difficulties?

And Dazai, with his eyes half-closed and a blissful smile, said:

When a someone else's hand touched his face for the last time and fell, dragging the shackles down with it.

When the glassy, lifeless eyes staring back at him seemed like his own. When he felt the pain of his beating heart. When the body beneath him grew colder and colder.

When a part of himself died.

Even a false one. If the devil in angelic guise helps him, he will surrender his soul to his power forever.

Addicted.

Addicted. Addicted.

Addicted to the pain that tears him apart from within, that breaks his bones and steals his breath. He is suffocating, but he keeps whispering. Whispering every night, indistinct words into his palms clasped in a prayerful gesture.

Only he does not pray to God—but to a man.

To one so merciless. A blasphemer who dared to place himself on a par with the highest beings.

The devil looks with his dark eyes deep into the soul, sees right through it, reads thoughts, exploits them.

There is no salvation from him.

But he isn’t seeking salvation either. He continues to pray to his false God every night. To confess all his sins. To watch as his God’s lips curl into a mocking smirk, as God remembers every transgression, as He sharpens the knife with which He will pierce his heart. The sinner himself handed Him the blade.

And Chuuya miraculously didn’t die in the lab.

Chuuya didn’t die in the slums.

Chuuya didn’t die when a poison-coated knife was plunged into him.

Chuuya didn’t die when all his friends were brutally murdered, and he had to tell the most despicable lie so that the last of them could rest in peace without regrets.

Chuuya didn’t die when he deprived himself of the chance to prove his humanity.

Chuuya did not die when the only person capable of stopping the corruption left him alone with the greatest fear, which sent him nightmares every night.

Chuuya did not die when a deadly ability swept across the world and a civil war began.

As it happens, Chuuya has not died yet.

‘Make rounds every hour.’

‘If you notice any movement, turn off your flashlight and under no circumstances turn it back on.’

‘If you hear a voice calling your name, ignore it.’

Those were the rules.

They were more like survival rules than workplace guidelines, but management strongly recommended following them. Several employees had gone missing in this area over the past few months.

None of them kept a log, so the exact causes of their disappearances are unknown.

I’m the last one to volunteer to monitor the building until the organization takes further action which they won’t.

The longer I stay here, the more clearly I hear a woman’s voice calling me into the depths of the abandoned center. Abandoned? Was the center ever abandoned? It seems to have changed its appearance while I’ve been in the safe zone is it really safe?

I don’t know how much time has passed—the clock stopped before it even reached three in the morning. All I can do is wait for dawn. It’s safer here in the morning, and the day shift guard will relieve me right away.

Judging by the sound, water is dripping from somewhere. I wonder where it’s coming from? Is it raining outside? Could the roof be leaking somewhere?

I can hear rustling outside. It’s luring me out. I feel like I’m going crazy. I’m supposed to be all alone here, but I know for sure that someone else is lurking nearby. I was warned about this.

Could they have lied to me?… No, there’s definitely someone here. I’m definitely not crazy!!!

A screech, as if something were scratching at the door with claws. An annoying sound—covering my ears with my hands doesn’t help; it’s as if it’s inside my head. I want to smash my skull…

/unintelligible/

There are only a few hours left. I don’t know how many. I’ve made three rounds and don’t know when to start the fourth. The uncertainty is turning into despair. I’m trapped here. The only way to escape is to head straight for the front door as soon as I leave the “security room.” But I know it’s here. I can hear it breathing behind the door. It’s waiting for me.

/illegible handwriting/

It’s tugging on the handle.

/barely legible/

It’s gone. Quiet. Very quiet. Morning?

I think I saw a ray of sunlight on one of the cameras. It’s time to go to…»

/the diary entry cuts off/

Many point out that Dazai’s role in the plot is too significant for a minor character. He cannot be killed or maimed, as this would have a massive impact on the plot. He is literally the foundation of the story. If he were removed, the entire house—the entire universe—would collapse.

Dazai manages to return to Yokohama. He stabs Fyodor, delivering a fatal blow. A powerful singularity occurs.

The only one capable of stopping the destructive force, Chūya, uses a corruption, this time knowing full well that Osamu won’t save him. He uses the curse one last time to protect the survivors. Just as he always does.

Fukuchi sees how many people his mistake has killed, how many people have once again fallen as needless victims, but Fyodor is dead. Fukuchi has no way to atone for his guilt—it will stay with him for the rest of his life.

Dostoevsky is defeated. The ground is littered with the mutilated corpses of adults and children. Those lucky enough to survive are left standing amid the ruins of the old world. Everything is destroyed. Such is the price of victory over an immortal, mad, and cruel creature that cannot be called human.

It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t a coincidence, it wasn’t a mistake, and it wasn’t even Mori Ogai’s plan—it was a conscious choice made by the man who meant everything to Dazai.

Dazai knows that Oda wouldn’t have stopped if Dazai had been able to reach out and grab his shoulder to prevent his friend from willingly walking into the arms of his killer.

If neither of them had been so stubborn, Dazai wouldn't have asked the bartender to bring an extra glass, which remains untouched.

When Ango spotted Dazai, he froze on the stairs, hesitating to go further into the bar. It was a public place, but Sakaguchi always felt that it belonged more to Dazai than to him.

“I know you’re not to blame for his death. We all warned him. But he was always a headstrong one,” the glass slammed down on the bar counter, spilling some of its contents over the edge, “Don’t think I’ll forgive you. I just wanted you to know.”

Dazai didn't budge. But Ango, too, seemed afraid to even breathe.

Tears welled up in his eyes. Ango knows. He knows that Dazai was just a child who had lost the adult he loved. Ango knows that life taught this little boy not to rely on anyone or blame anyone—because there’s no one around. And he knows that he became an object of contempt because this teenager, wrapped in bandages like armor, proved unable to survive the ordeal that life had sent his way. It’s unlikely that Dazai believes in God. If he were in Dazai’s shoes, Ango would have long since cursed the “almighty” every single day for turning his back on him. He left the child to fend for himself, even though he swore to help with everything, to guide him by the hand through all hardships. But the definition of “fate” fits perfectly. Because fate is beyond our control, and God is not omnipotent.

That’s why Ango didn’t take offense; he tried not to let Dazai’s reaction get to him. It’s hard. It’s no easier for Ango, but there was—and still is—a fundamental difference between him and Dazai: Ango was an adult. And Ango decided to remain an adult until the very end. Even if Dazai causes an accident, Ango will pretend he doesn’t care—after all, they’ve always let him get away with too much; Oda has spoiled this restless boy far too much.