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The day was only beginning, the sun arose, peeking behind curtains of crispy green grass, shining below the vigorous golden gaze of the sun. Following the glossy, radiant yellow light, you see a bed beside the window. A simple twin-sized bed, fitted with ordinary pale sheets, on top of the bed lay a woman, covered by a sea of blanket, swallowing her. Milk-stained skin contrasted against stygian-colored hair, sprouting from the head all the way down and under the blanket. There was not much to see, but even with so little, you could make out so much. The room was filled to the brim with undisturbed silence, not even a speck of sound traveled through the room. For a while, the silence gradually grew louder than any noise, before being broken with the soft, delicate whines of a baby- a suffocating display of innocence, with just an effortless sound. Like a formless contract, a promising tranquility fell upon the room, codling both the two, mother and son, in a warm light of peace.
November 11th,
The world was blessed with the gift of God; a human set on changing the world, a human whose only purpose in life is to change the world. Ever since young, Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky had only one goal set in his mind. Everyone talked about it, dreamed about it, and desired it, but no one had taken the initiative to try and do their part in changing the world. Words hold no meaning, promises are as easily torn apart as water-soaked tissues. God had sent him down to earth to complete the task he asked for. An Angle-a devil, in the end, it doesn’t matter. He’s doing more than anyone could understand, no doubt people thrash around names, calling him whatever they could think of. The unknown is not meant to be known- hence the name, if people were to fully comprehend just the importance of his duty, he would be praised to no end, something he had thought after, but never sought after.
Dostoevsky, piece by piece is deleting the corrupt. A life lived with evil is one not worth living, if no one recognizes so, they’re far too hopeless in the eyes of God. The world knows evil like none other, but what most evil stems from is abilities . Abilities are what ruined mankind. Nothing less but Satan himself could have been the cause of such blasphemous actions. Sin reverts back to abilities- as it is its one true form. People have no choice in this, they’re chosen, blindly by demons, then changed to one by the same monsters causing the chaos. Dostoevsky closes his eyes shut, fantasizing about a world free of sin. A thick oozing hatred flows through his veins, multiplying since the day he had lost everything.
The air was moist, and the carpets soaked. With each step he took, the liquidy mess of the fluffy flooring gripped onto his bare feet, sticky substances flushed out from the carpet from the pressure he applied with each consecutive step. His clothing and hair coated in the same sticky liquid stuck uncomfortably onto his skin, but that was the last thing he was thinking about. Just a few feet before him lay the unmoving bodies of his parents. Suddenly, as if the world had stopped, or more as if a bubble had enveloped his body, freezing time within. He knows the time didn’t stop, that’s absurd, and he can faintly pick up the unbothered, continuous ticks of the nearby analog clock. An old clock it was. Passed down from a few generations. He would often sit in the reading room (where the clock had been sitting on a wall right beside the fireplace) with a random book in his hands, reading whilst the ticking could be heard in the background, reminding him where he was, even as he was sucked into the land of the book.
Whilst millions of thoughts ran through his mind, the bodies of his parents lay still, dead still. Panic rose from his chest as bile soon followed, the grotesque site of such horrors was too much for a child like him to handle, soon threw up everything he had previously consumed, just a few hours ago, made by the same exact hands that are now sitting completely still on the ground. His shaking form slowly sunk deep down to the ground, huddling himself like on a winter morning. Gradually, he started to smell the rancid metallic miasma of blood, and the feeling of almost dry, sticky blood covering him head to toe, along with covering the entire carpeted floor, now seeped deep below. He could taste a weak mixture of blood with moist wood, the kind you would recognize after a long day of rain, after a while, he could also make out the sour taste of vomit still lingering on his tongue.
Even when he had been nothing but an innocent child, he was developed enough to understand what had just happened, but he didn’t know how.
Crime and punishment punish those who have done evil, with the thought to change, it doesn’t matter whether they were aware of it or not, his ability knew. The people who cause havoc, and commit despicable crimes are all evil, but those who feel remorse, and guilt, shall be given the chance to repent for their sins. And that is done through him. He takes the lives of those who are evil in exchange for, hopefully, forgiveness from the victim. Of course, the actual victims never knew, not at the time at least, perhaps a few days after it’s published on some local newspaper or news site. He had been given the role to punish evil by God, he was only a mere
pawn in God’s game, but regardless, his most important duty as a messenger of God is to destroy the corrupt. Hence his thirst to remove all ability users.
When he was nothing but a mere child, the murder of his parents was only an accident, an accident caused by his wretched ability. He vows to kill all those deserving; every single ability user .
Osamu Dazai- No words could perfectly describe his true self, the whole picture. He’s an air-headed buffoon living a life he knows he doesn’t deserve, nor desire, yet day and night, he’s constantly stuffing his feet in shoe sizes too small. Dostoyevsky knows Osamu perfectly, after all, they’re each other, but they’re one at the same time.
Osamu, like a dream, not in a sense of serene desire, one always just inches out of your grip. But in a sense, where he doesn’t seem real enough to count not as a dream. Dostoyevsky wonders, in a bashful way, whether Osamu’s only a skin suit, one meticulously designed, then stuffed with soft cotton, sewn back up, and used as bait to purposely make him suffer. He’s bashful of such a thought knowing it’s absurd, but the longer he ponders over the thought, the more he’s convincing himself it’s not a silly concept, but rather the cold hard truth.
Osamu is constantly on his mind, but even with how much he’s surrounded himself with the brunette, a natural feeling of loathing is always being projected onto Osamu. No matter what, the hatred running through his veins is appointed towards ability users, Osamu not being an exception. In fact, Dostoyevsky abhors Osamu over any other disgusting pieces of flesh he’s met.
Yet after all the talk about hatred, he can’t seem to find a single ounce of hate, disgust, or even plain annoyance in himself as he stares at Osamu, his eyes glossed over, making him look as if he’s staring beyond the brunette and into his soul. Taking in the other's appearance, he can’t help but look at Osamu through a lens of fondness.
The day was only beginning, the sun arose, peeking behind curtains of crispy green grass, shining below the vigorous golden gaze of the sun. Following the glossy, radiant yellow light, you see both Dostoyevsky and Osamu stand in a field of flowers, facing each other with a few steps of space between them. Osamu held an expression of well-collected calmness, but one that looked superficial, it was hard to tell what he was truly feeling. Dostoyevsky held a glare of viscous detestation, but somewhere along the lines of his facial features, shining as brightly as the sun, a heart filled with love and eyes filled with veneration.