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[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆Human Boy

─❏ Warnings: angst

─❏ Characters: Chuuya Nakahara, mentioned Paul Verlaine and Osamu Dazai

─❏ Synopsis: A boy questioning his humanity and a boy who sees him as nothing but.

─❏ A/N: hi it’s been a while but here you go

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

2383 lines of code. That’s what my dear brother told me I was when we first met. Astonishing, isn’t it, that someone a part of your “family” could just tear down your already fragile sense of self after having just met you?

He told me that I was simply an artificial soul made up of strings of numbers to mimic humanity in order to take advantage of an ability.

And yet he insists that I’m human

I don’t need your opinion.

But, do you really believe I am human? Why? Why the hell would you ever think so highly of me as to believe I am not just a bunch of codes that could be found in any sort of computer?

Even if I am the real person I claim to be, I harbor a monster deep within that chips away at my very being and soon, if not already, I will be a monster too. How can anyone like that be remotely human?

I hate you.

I hate the way you look at me. The way your lips curl when you smile. Your stupid messy hair. The way you make me feel like I’m more than just some weapon, I’m more than my power and strength.

I hate that you know that I cry and I feel pain just like everyone else does, why do you, of all people, get to know that? It’s not fair that you’re the one who gets to see me when I’m most vulnerable.

I hate that you know where to take me home at the end of the day and exactly what I do to care for myself after using it. You’re sickening. I don’t want you to carry me back in your arms or on your back. I don’t want you to cradle my head and support my neck when I can’t keep myself upright. I don’t want you to lay my blanket over me before I wake up, even if you just dump me on the couch. I hate that it’s you. Why can’t it be anyone else?

I just know that you’re aware of my hatred for it all, that might be why you do it. I refuse to believe that you could be doing it because you care or out of the supposed kindness in your heart, for I know there is nothing but a gaping hole in your heart that I could thrust my fist through. It’s as if you’re missing a piece to a puzzle and it’s driving you mad, you can’t find it so you see no point in finishing it.

Have you ever considered just making the last piece yourself? With paper and scissors. Sure, it won’t be the same, but at least it’s something. Whoever has that last piece can’t give it to you unless you tell them to anyway. I have an extra puzzle piece… but you never asked so why should I try and see if it fits?

I guess I am curious though…

You claim to lack the fundamental understanding of humanity, perhaps that’s why you look to the one you know who is least grounded in humanity for answers. Because I’m just simple like that, easy for you to understand, easy for you to pull apart and put back together like you do your pens.

Maybe, if you asked, I’d pull myself apart for you and you’d see something new, something to find worth in.

Then you could put me back together as the human you see me as.

— Chuuya Nakahara

Human.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆A Vessel

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Chuuya Nakahara

─❏ Synopsis: Some thoughts post corruption…

─❏ A/N: will user sinfulpunishment ever let these characters be happy? who knows!

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

My mouth tastes of metal. Blood.

Knees locking because it’s the only thing keeping me from dropping to them, not that it’ll actually save me from tasting the rubble that I so carefully decorated the floor with. Muscles aching, throbbing, the worst coming from the one at my center. It feels like waking up from anesthesia, but if they put you under to let the storm roll over.

I cough into my bare, scraped palms and find more red than there was before I opened my damned muzzle. It’s the same red that stains the ground and the bodies of those whose lives I ripped away from them. It’s evidence of life; ironic that the same evidence comes out of my body considering how dead I feel.

Every part of my body aches, my skin stings and I wish I could rip it from my body and trade it in for a new set. My hands feel heavy and the blood in my palms only makes them feel heavier. I think some scars are invisible because I can still see the red marks that decorate my vessel, even if they’re not really there anymore and I’m still here. I’m me again.

I’m me but I feel like only a husk of myself for now. I know I’ll be back to my full self later—whoever that may be—but the moments leading up to that feel like an eternity. My head is pounding in my skull, it feels it should be a concussion, and I can’t tell if the pounding is my heart beating or something else. Is it even my own heart beating? Or can I somehow hear the life flowing through the only person who still stands by me at the end of it all, after the storm has passed. Though, sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s even alive either. Maybe we died together long ago and now we walk this purgatory—at least I wouldn’t be alone. We’re foredoomed to be together.

Looking around at the leveled land, for a brief second I wonder “What could have done such a thing?” Then I remember: I did that. With my own two hands, I brought about this much destruction and death, it doesn’t even feel real. How could any one person do so much in such little time? Why am I the one that can?

It’s not that any person can, because real people aren’t capable of this. This is akin to the stories children read about monsters, monsters cause chaos and destruction and death, that’s what separates them from people.

I am but a vessel—a carrier for a deadly plague. A disease so strong that I can’t even fight it myself, I have to rely on someone else to control it. It sounds pathetic, like I’m some damsel in distress. It makes my blood boil.

This thing that I must come to terms with as sharing a body with me. The thing that ripped my past away from me as well as my humanity. It’s funny, I don’t feel human and yet others tell me I am, it’s hard to believe them.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if no one stopped the process—if he wasn’t there to stop me. That would be the end for me. My body would destroy itself from the inside out. If I ceased to exist, would the beast within me awaken to new found freedom?

That’s hardly fair. Where’s my freedom? When do I get to be happy? When do I get to come to realize my humanity and accept my existence? When do I get to have a body of my own?

I’m tired of being some pretty little pattern on a furnace of pure rage and power. I want to be me, just Chuuya.

But I guess that’s mostly just wishful thinking. For now, I want to stop coughing up my own blood. I want to stop looking at the damage I caused.

For now, I just want to rest.

You need not wake me again.

— Chuuya Nakahara

a storm.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆… And To Letting Go

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Oda Sakunosuke, mentioned Ango Sakaguchi

─❏ Synopsis: Read by a man standing in front of his friend’s grave in the rain.

─❏ A/N: part two of the oda goodbye letters

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Dearest Ango,

I am well aware that last we spoke it was not on… the best of terms, but I am also aware that there must be a reason for your actions. I don’t believe I blame you, nor am I really upset with you.

Besides, you should be focused on other matters and not any guilt you may feel for what you’ve done. For example, you should be getting more rest instead of staying up so late to do work, maybe then you wouldn’t have to rely on coffee so much. At this point though, I know your coffee order, but it’s very simple: two shots of espresso, and sometimes a biscotti alongside it. Though, I know you prefer the coffee I make over any other coffee shop nearby. It’s strange, I wouldn’t say that my coffee is any better than someone who dedicated their life to it, but if you really like it that much then I’ll always make you a pot.

I am sorry things aren’t going to be able to go back to how they used to be. I know it’s hard, our time together meant a lot to you, even now I can tell it’s hard for you to let go. Sometimes I also catch myself daydreaming of a time in which we all are free men, and we can lead normal lives together, as friends. I know you like antiques, right? I wish I could have gone antiquing with you then. I also wish we all could have gone somewhere like the beach together, or maybe even the aquarium.

But we can’t. Things are different now, and soon I won’t be with you two anymore.

I only hope that you continue to do what’s right, you are a rather kind person deep down, I know that. I hope you’re able to hold onto a copy of that photo of us, just for yourself, that way you can at least have a picture to capture that small period of time. I still want you to be able to let go though, you’ll have to, you cannot get stuck in the past and what could have been. By the time you read this, what’s done will have been done and there will be no turning back.

Just promise me this much: that you’ll take care of yourself and Dazai, for me.

For you, treat yourself well and take care of yourself, learn how to make your own espresso or find a coffee shop you really like. Try getting more rest too, and remember not to let your work completely control your life.

As for Dazai, just keep an eye on him. I do not know what path he will walk down, if he will stay in the Port Mafia or leave to find a better life; Of course, I hope he chooses the latter.

I know you could help him get out of any serious trouble, he doesn’t always make the safest decisions. But, he’s smart. He may not always seem to make the “best choices”, but things always seem to work out for him, he always plans ahead. Even if he doesn’t like you, not that I think that he absolutely hates you, he is still bound to you by the bond we all formed.

If you ever visit my resting place, don’t bring yellow flowers, Dazai hates yellow and we both know he’ll visit me too. Maybe bring a bottle of Scotch and two shot glasses, open a bottle for me and save me a glass.

Oh, before I forget, you did know of my dream to be a novelist, right? To sit at a desk, with a window overlooking the sea so I can hear the waves crash to the shore with a certain rhythm to it that you have to spend years around to even understand—I’m getting ahead of myself.

I wanted to leave that novel to you, Ango. I trust that you can write well, and you would know what I would have liked to read. It’s just that this is very important to me. Of course, you don’t have to. Make sure to leave me a copy if you do though, maybe even come and read it to me if you have time, I know you’re a busy man.

I know things are different between us, but I still wish nothing for the best for you, my friend. Don’t forget to visit our usual spot every now and then, greet the bartender for me, won’t you?

This is goodbye now, write for me.

To the stray dogs, and to letting go.

— Oda Sakunosuke

to an overworked friend.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆To New Beginnings…

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Oda Sakunosuke, mentioned Dazai Osamu

─❏ Synopsis: A goodbye letter to a friend, found in Oda’s jacket pocket.

─❏ A/N: this was my first oda piece

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Hey kid.

I know the first time you read this you’ll be clutching your rapidly draining heart to your chest, trying so desperately to hold onto every last moment you have left even if the steady rise and fall of one’s chest has stopped. I wonder if you’re crying… if you are, I’m sorry I can no longer wipe the tears away with the cuff of my sleeve—though I’m sure your hands are big enough for you to be able to do it yourself now.

There are so many things I want to say to you, but sometimes fewer words can have a bigger impact than many. It’s easier to remember something short, that’s why you’ll never forget our time together.

I know you want to hold on, I know it’s hard to let go. You may stay by my side for a bit more but you’ll need to get to your feet again and continue on even if I’m not there. Keep your chin up. If you find it hard to value your own life, find other people’s lives to value instead. You may find it gives you a purpose which can lead to finding value in yourself.

You’re already aware that this was likely to come anyways, weren’t you? You tried to stop me many times. But, listen Osamu, my story has come to a close—the chapter with me in your book is reaching its conclusion. This does not mean your story is over though, there are still so many pages for you to fill.

I won’t ever really be gone; I know, that’s really corny. So long as you remember what we had though I will always be with you. I want you to remember everything, good and bad, and carry it with you, grow from it. This is not to say you should dwell on it and wish things could have been different, this was meant to happen.

Maybe I’ll get to see you once more. Maybe I’ll get to cradle your head in my hands one last time, letting you know that you’re safe.

I want you to do some things for me, think that’s possible?

I want you to keep living. Keep living for not just me, but for yourself, and for those who will care about you like I do. You will most certainly meet more people, hopefully you’ll befriend them. The world is cruel, you’re not wrong about that, and you may be cursing it all at this moment. But even despite that, protect what you have. Protect people. Even if you yourself are not “good”, do something good. Get out of this place and start anew.

Take my jacket, carry it with you. Wrap it around your shoulders as you walk out of this place, let it warm you just as it always has, and create for yourself a new beginning. Become a person who saves people.

I only wish I could see you grow more—I would give so much to see the light in your eyes rekindle and grow. I will always be proud of you, Osamu.

I would like to take you back to that place just one last time. We can sit and discuss whatever is on our minds, like always.

I hope you can find someone new to take there and share the warmth it brings with them as well.

May the day come soon that you are no longer that kid sitting on the white sheets, holes littering your body—but they are healing. The kid who refused to eat out of stubbornness, but who eventually gave in and let himself be truly cared for, maybe for the first time. The kid who’s always two steps ahead but afraid of needles nonetheless, and does not like dogs, who loathes every shade of yellow. May the day come soon where you no longer need me.

If you ever find a poor child on your front porch, no matter if they’re injured or not, let them in. I didn’t regret letting my kid in when I picked him up. Let the kid in, you may find they have filled your heart.

This is it now, I apologize for leaving but keep pushing forward.

Goodbye, dear friend.

To the stray dogs, and to new beginnings.

— Oda Sakunosuke

from a “father” to a “son”.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆The Day I Picked Up a Burnt Black Cat

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Oda Sakunosuke, implied Dazai Osamu

─❏ Synopsis: Oda retells the story of how he met a cat

─❏ A/N: in honor of TDIPUD releasing have this

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

A while back I happened to stumble upon a kitten.

Now, normally, I would not needlessly take note of something everyone can see when they walk down the street, this particular kitten was different. The kitten had collapsed outside on my doorstep, beaten and bloodied. This kitten was black, like something burnt, and had scraggly fur that was probably fluffy when clean.

When I saw the kitten, my immediate thought was that I should take it to the nearest vet. It’s not like I was a professional, I couldn’t be certain that I could nurture the creature back to life. Yet, against my better judgment, I picked it up and brought it inside.

Once inside, I cleaned its paws of the blood, and had begun to bathe it when it had woken up. It did claw and protest—very loudly—to the care, but I persisted. I set up a bed for it in a little cardboard box in my living room.

I ended up successfully nurturing the kitten back to health. Of course, the process had some complications. The kitten sure loved to try and run away—I didn’t take it personally. One day it had gotten out successfully. While chasing the kitten down to bring it back home—it hadn’t fully healed yet, it’s not like I had any intention of keeping it originally—I found it had run into trouble with a group of stray dogs. After successfully rescuing the kitten, I took it back home. Once home I gave it food, this time the kitten didn’t insist on eating on the other side of the room, away from me. Instead, the kitten allowed me to sit next to it on the floor while we both ate. And, for the first time since we met, it allowed me to pet it.

After that day, the kitten and I began to grow closer. The kitten would come and go from my house frequently. When it first left, I didn’t figure it would come back at all, until later that same night it triumphantly walked in, holding an injured robin in its jaw. Once set down, the bird tried to fly away to no avail. It was a rather pathetic display—though, who am I, a human being, to judge the hardships of another creature? I ended up taking the robin to a nearby birdhouse outside, leaving it some sunflower seeds I had in a bag to snack on.

The kitten would frequently return to my house with “gifts”, and even without it came back almost every day. Eventually I invested in a bed for it. I would have to bathe it often, I refuse to have any parasites in my home, much to its protest though. At night, after I had come home from work, the kitten would curl up in my lap as I sat on the couch to unwind.

It was a peaceful life that me and the little black kitten had—at least, at my house. The kitten would often return to me beaten and bloodied, similarly to how I found it. Of course, I always tended to the wounds, but I felt my heart twist and ache every time I saw it return in such a sorry state. One couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life the feline led outside of my home.

Eventually the kitten would grow into a cat, becoming wiser and more agile. The scars from its youth would begin to be covered by fluffy, black hair. Though, I could keep track of the location of every scar that adorned its skin, therefore keeping track of its healing process. But, not all scars can heal and fade away completely, some will leave their marks for the rest of time. It’s those scars that the cat would have to learn to accept—not necessarily forgive those who inflicted the scars, but instead grow from the experience. There were some scars located in places no one should ever have to experience pain in, human or not—those were by far the most painful to keep track of.

I believe the burnt-black cat and I have become very close friends.

If I could I would spend the rest of our lives together, me and my feline friend. I would bring it with me to my house by the sea, it would sit on my desk, basking in the sunlight, while I write.

However, I fear that our time together is running short.

I can only hope that my time with the cat has taught it how to care for itself properly. I hope it can find someone to curl up with, someone to bring presents to with a strong sense of pride, someone who will care for the scars on its skin.

What a fine young man you’ve become, I only wish I could continue to watch you grow more, dear friend.

Take care of the little burnt-black cat for me.

— Oda Sakunosuke

caring for a close friend.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆To Let Go of Fear

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky, mentioned Nikolai Gogol

─❏ Synopsis: How can one trust anyone but themselves in a world riddled with sin? But there is one man who may be worthy…

─❏ A/N: decided to expand upon fyodor’s trust issues after dazai called him out

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Trust is something incredibly important to every living being on this planet.

Trust is typically given to those who are believed to be deserving of such a delicate thing. However, what makes someone deserving of trust varies depending on who you ask, just as most things do. This variability can make it difficult to get a basis on who one should trust.

Typically, I find myself in a position where I can make people do as I desire and instruct them to. Control provides a sense of comfortability, it decreases the likelihood of anything going wrong. Therefore, trust is not needed.

The difficult aspect is that while most wish to have control, not many find it easy to accept that they are being controlled. Most will fight back against being controlled, typically seen as a justified act in order to protect their beloved freedom, as they see it. Most are not truly free, to be truly free is to have total control and yet no control at all, it is a paradox.

By definition, to trust someone is to understand that one has no control over the other and to live with the acceptance of that fact, to not feel threatened by the unknown of the inability to plan for the future. Trust is built upon the belief that the other party has your best interest in mind. Trust depends upon the riddance of fear. Ridding oneself of such fear is much easier said than executed.

He is by far one of the most interesting and yet unpredictable individuals I have met. Even upon recruitment, his loyalty was never certain due to his own motives and philosophy. He experiences fear, certainly, just as any human does but he expertly stamps it out with his own desires. It is admirable, but often confused and scares others. He truly dedicates himself to his goal, something many cannot do, and that frightens them. But, it does not frighten me.

I find him to be truly fascinating. His ideas, his personality, his goals, his perception of life—it all is quite captivating. By nature of his goal he cannot be predictable, it would defeat the entire purpose of losing oneself entirely in the name of true freedom if he, or any other factor, were to exert any form of control over him. It is this peculiarity that draws me to him.

However, by my own nature, I am unable to give him my trust. Just as I never fully give my trust to anyone, he is not an exception. I trust those of whom I can control, there is little to no risk in doing so, especially when planning for instances of betrayal are possible. With him, I cannot plan ahead. I may assign him a task, but there is no guarantee that he will follow suit completely. I know that. It is the reason why I ensure that there are other forces at play to balance out his unpredictable tendencies.

I wish to indulge in a bit of a hypothetical scenario, simply out of curiosity…

What if I were to put my trust in him?

What would he do with that trust? Would he need to hear me utter the words to him or can it be mutually agreed upon and left unsaid? Would he truly prove a useful ally for me?

How much would it hurt when he finds that he must break our trust to reach his goal?

I suppose part of trusting him would be letting go of the fear that he would inevitably turn against me. Perhaps an agreement could be reached over our goals. I suppose I would not mind him doing as he pleased once my goal had been reached. Though, that is a rather selfish thought, it makes the most sense that my goal would be executed first seeing as his goal is one that is long term and can be achieved at any time. But would he be willing to, in turn, trust that I would keep my word? I suppose it’s not only up to me.

If I am to continue on indulging in these thoughts for a moment longer, then may I wonder how it would feel to be able to place your trust in someone?

Would it feel warm? Would it feel safe and comforting? Is that why people form bonds of trust, to feel secure?

I’ve heard that the deepest form of trust comes with love. I wonder how that feels…

Nevertheless, it is all hypothetical. I do not have the luxury to risk such things in the name of feeling “good”—in the name of a supposed love. I have God by my side to guide me and that is all I need, He is who I put my trust and faith into, not some jester in a birdcage of flesh and bone.

Trust is something incredibly important to every living being on this planet, except for me.

— Fyodor Dostoevsky

Crumpled but still kept near where he lay his head.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆A Deadly Dance

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky (pov), Dazai Osamu

─❏ Synopsis: An invitation to a game, and to a dance.

─❏ A/N: i think this could count as fyozai if you want it to

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

What a deadly partner I have.

We met in a place only you and I could reach, a place that only our minds could conjure up. We cross paths in a ballroom, lively with people. But these aren’t just any people, they’re our pawns, and they dance and sway to the music while remaining unaware of the strings we have attached to them—thin wire, sharp enough to slice into the skin and eliminate those who provide no use to us anymore.

The music filling the ballroom matches each of our moves perfectly, changing the sound to match the tension between you and I.

We need not speak, for an agreement has already been made: I will approach you. Though we have been eyeing each other for quite a bit, watching each step the other makes and calculating the advantage of whoever strikes first.

I extend my hand out to you, dipping down slightly at the waist, with a grin on my face and ask if I may have this dance. Of course, you accept. Our hands will interlock, you may find my hands to be exceptionally cold, similar to those of the dead, while yours are rough from the experiences of life.

I pull you in close to me, our faces mere inches away, but it should be like this, it is rude to keep distance from your partner as you dance. Of course, both of us came well prepared for this dance, neither of us being unarmed. The point of your knife barely pressing into the arch of my back, while my dagger’s blade teases the skin at the nape of your neck. We wait for the other to make one wrong move in order to provide an opening to strike.

Every single move we make is calculated and exact. Even when you step on my feet, it is not an accident or just to see my face twist in pain—though you would find that amusing—you do it to throw me off rhythm. I also attempt to do the same to you, tugging your hair or a stray bandage to get you to lose your focus. Neither of us will falter though.

It’s all so exhilarating, is it not?

Our dances may vary as the music flows and changes to fit the mood, to accompany our goals. We may waltz together at first, swaying along to the music with ease. Then we may find ourselves having to tango, a much more exciting dance to say the least.

Our dance will be close and intimate, but deadly nonetheless. It will be a battle of the wits, who is more clever?

Your challenges are always so enticing, they provide this sort of rush that no one else can give me. You, yourself, provide the mental stimulation I so desire, you are my perfect opponent.

You know exactly what cards to play, where to move your pieces on the checkered board we dance across. The pieces fall into their spots around us, closing in now and then but still we keep spinning. The black and white squares become blurred and dizzying, but I do not dare to take my eyes off of you. I will grace you with my undivided attention if you grace me with that of your own.

Should you dip me, my head will fall back as I exhale a sigh of pleasure—my pleasure being found in the thrill and adrenaline provided by dancing with the enemy. And, should I begin to become bored with our current stand-off, you will whisper something in my ear. Something to tempt me back into pursuing you further, and so our dance—our tango for two, our waltz between life and death—will resume.

Oh, how I do indeed look forward to this dance with you, I am certain it will be something to remember. The entire experience will be most exhilarating for the both of us, I can promise you that.

I suppose we shall see who ends up laying limp in the other's arms at the end of it all, who has fallen victim to the blades we held so close to one another. Who will take the final bow?

I believe we are comparable to the concepts of life and death, I am certain you can discern who is in the position of each role. You can consider this to be a battle—no, a dance between the most brilliant minds to walk the earth. And oh, how I love the way your mind works, so similar to mine and yet so different at the same time, it makes me ill.

So, may I have this dance, Dazai?

— Fyodor Dostoevsky

an invitation from Death himself.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆Small, Gradual Changes

─❏ Warnings: alcohol

─❏ Characters: Oda Sakunosuke (pov), Ango Sakaguchi

─❏ Synopsis: Oda is trying to figure out why Ango has been acting strange around him lately.

─❏ A/N: oda is oblivious guys

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

I’ve noticed a few changes with you recently.

I don’t believe I would say that they’re bad changes, I’ve just noticed changes in your overall behavior around and towards me.

Recently, when we sit at the bar, I can feel a pair of eyes on me. Normally someone would say it feels like eyes “burning” into them, but I wouldn’t say the feeling burns… It feels warmer, not so harsh and definitely not harboring any form of malice.

I can tell it’s your eyes, not his—he looks at me differently and I know the feeling of his eyes watching me. Another reason is that when I turn in an attempt to catch the gaze, I catch a flash of light hazel moving away from me. The color of your eyes, I would know because I often catch myself gazing into them. The color is soft, it can be described as having a likeness to hazel colored satin, it’s soothing and comforting—so easy to get lost in. Anyone should consider themselves lucky should they ever find themselves getting to wake up and gaze into a pair of such soft eyes first thing in the morning. I bet the color looks even better when reflecting the rays of the dawn.

I can’t help but wonder why you would be looking at me though. Is there something on my shirt? But then again, if there was, it wouldn’t be there for so long. And yet, you still look at me…

Should I be looking at you too?

Lately, when you talk to me, you seem brighter. There are days where I can tell you’ve been stressed and you’re very tired, and yet you brighten up when you see me and converse with me. You get excited when talking about even small things with me. I do enjoy it though, I like listening to you speak.

Your voice is sweet and smooth. The words that leave your lips match your voice as well, like honey. I feel as if I could listen to you speak about anything for an eternity, even about things I have no interest in whatsoever. That’s something special, not a lot of people can say that about another person, I don’t believe.

At this point, I should be able to pick your voice out from a crowd, even your laugh should be enough to separate you from anyone else. You have such a pleasant laugh, it’s rather contagious, especially since it’s not something one can hear often. Your nose scrunches whenever you laugh. Sometimes, when Dazai cracks a bad joke, for example, you bring your glass up to your lips to hide the smile that’s cracking on your face. It’s still noticeable though, even if you try to hide it.

It used to be that when I would bring you coffee in the morning, you would quickly thank me and get right back to work. Now, however, you strike up a small conversation with me. You even look up from your papers, put down your pen, to give your full attention to me. It’s almost as if time stops just to give us a moment to chat. The room becomes still, but peaceful. It’s always hard to stop talking and return to work, I find myself wanting to stay and just talk forever.

When you come to the usual place at night to meet with us, you’ve started bringing us small souvenirs from your endeavors outside. They’re always carefully thought out, no matter how small it is. I can tell that you think of us even while you’re away from us—even while you’re working.

I want to give you something in return. I believe I’ll ask Dazai what he thinks, he knows a lot about flowers, he talks about them quite a bit around me, so perhaps he can help me pick some out for you. I’d like to hand deliver it to you. What a throwback for me, delivering something—maybe I’ll include a letter as well to really take me back. Although, you seem like someone who would enjoy a watch. I’m afraid I may have to visit the antique store without you, my friend.

I suppose you’re not the only one acting differently. Lately, when I look at you I feel something in my gut—is it what people call butterflies? Even while writing this I can feel my heartbeat growing ever-so-slightly faster, my heart itself feels warmer. Sometimes I can feel my ears and parts of my face grow hot around you. Even thinking about you now, thinking about your face, your light gray-ish hazel eyes, your hair and the way it gets messier as the day goes on, the way your fingers tap the side of the glass in your hand when you grow impatient, the beauty mark above your lip—seems I’m rambling now.

Perhaps I’m the one acting odd…

I think I need another glass now.

— Oda Sakunosuke

thoughts scribbled out on bar napkins, hopelessly oblivious.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆A Farewell Letter

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky (pov) + Nikolai Gogol

─❏ Synopsis: A final letter written to a lover never confessed to

─❏ A/N: my favorite comment on tiktok for this piece is: “when someone tells me I love you but sinfulpunishment said this”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

My Darling Dove,

Tonight we shall dance the waltz of death together. Your arm will tuck perfectly into the curvature of my waist where you will hold me, and hold me close so that we can listen to each other’s fleeting heart beats as the world around us comes to a stop.

Tonight the world of the gifted will play its ninth symphony. The beautiful sounds of the strings will fade out, the piano striking its last keys as the sheets on its stand decay—turning to dust that blows away and spreads throughout the theater. The curtains will close on the stage, the story having reached its grand finale, the gifted shall take their final bow.

As you may well be aware my plan is to rid the world of the sin that stains this world: the gifted. I know very well that I am no exception, that as someone with an ability I must also go.

As saddening as it is, I will not be able to see the fruit of our labor. But, I know that our mark on this world will be one of beauty, don’t you agree?

I can only hope that when it is inevitably my time to go that I can go out with you by my side. I wish to die only knowing your touch, your warmth. We shall fade out of existence as you leave your marks against my porcelain skin, the poison that is laced on your lips seeping into my body while you hold me in your bittersweet embrace.

My, what a way to go out; I never considered the beauty in a death so romantic. I know that we have nothing to fear in terms of what is waiting on the other side for us. We will walk hand in hand as we welcome our timely demise with open arms.

I suppose my only regret would be that by the time you are reading this my feelings will mean nothing. But, at the same time, I am relieved. If my feelings mean nothing then I do not have to anticipate the outcome of expressing such things.

Never will I have to fear rejection or loss, such is trivial anyways.

I hope that you can accept your death as I have accepted my own. There is truly nothing to fear or worry over, my dear; it will all be worth it.

Thank you for following me—for staying with me until the bitter end. You truly have meant a lot to me, I have no regret in keeping you by my side. I just know that we were fated to meet, it was no coincidence. You are the part that completed my whole and for that I express nothing but gratitude towards you for.

Until we meet again, my dearest Nikolai.

— Fyodor Dostoevsky

a farewell letter, hidden away in his desk drawer until the fated time has come.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆If I Sin…

─❏ Warnings: religious trauma, repeating words, slight gore

─❏ Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky

─❏ Synopsis: What does it take to earn His love?

─❏ A/N: this one is a bit rough to read

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

If I sin he will not love me.

This is what I have learned from those around me. Whether it be from the man who stands at the podium and reads from a cheap copy of that ever so sacred book, or from the old women who chatter before and after mass. Their chatter is nonsensical and ruthless, they speak of nothing but gossip and rumors and yet preach about “good behavior”. They are the ones who comment on how “handsome” you look in your sunday clothes—kiss your cheeks and tell you about how much of a “good boy” you are. All meaningless praise—all lies. They do nothing but condemn themselves, those hypocrites.

There is not a single purely good person who sits in the chapels, the churches, not even the cathedrals. They all return home where the poison they held back finally escapes their lips, as if the lord was still not watching over them.

They sing about loving one another, about loving everyone, but they are still human. They fear what they do not know, this makes them close their doors to the “unnatural”. They shun those who do not line up with what they believe to be normal. They love no one but themselves and those who meet their standards, those who give to them what they so desire. What hypocrites they are. May they be damned.

If I sin He will not love me.

I must repent. I must make up for my sins. I must. I must. For I will never be loved by Him if I do not.

It eats away at me. It makes me want to tear my skin from my own flesh, just to please Him. Must I make a sacrifice in His name?

In the old testament one would have to sacrifice a lamb and use its blood to repent for one’s sins.

One does not have a lamb.

Will one’s own blood suffice, my Lord?

My skin. My body. My mind. My soul. My very being. I give it all up to you, all in exchange for your love and praise. Please bestow it upon me. I crave your loving embrace to remind me of my purpose, for the reason you have sent me here.

If you sin He will not love you.

I will clear this world of these sinners. He does not love them, He does not approve of them. They are a stain on His good name.

He hand crafted humanity from His own likeness, it is shameful to dishonor his art. He already banished humans from His garden due to their sinful nature, they only infringe upon His divinity.

I need to rid the world of the plague that is humanity—the gifted, in order to preserve His will.

If I sin He will not love me.

So, I will make it impossible to not love me or I will be damned.

Please do not leave me

Alone.

— Fyodor

from the mind of a little boy, hands clasped together while sat in a pew.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆Hail Mary

─❏ Warnings: implied suicide

─❏ Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky

─❏ Synopsis: Would mama be proud?

─❏ A/N: i support fyodor being a mama’s boy allegations

inspired by ventoavreo

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Despite the sun shining brightly down upon this town, the world in my eyes had been completely drained of its color.

I knelt before the stone slab of which had your name engraved on it, my hands clasped together in prayer with white, wilting lilies woven between my small, frost bitten fingers. Never would I have known that being near you would feel so cold and harsh, for it had never felt that way before.

The church had refused to give you a proper service due to the nature of your untimely passing. Much to my disliking, I could not argue against God. I knew that if I had, you would have given me a frown to remind me of my faith.

And so, with my own hands, as well as the help of a few of your acquaintances, I laid you down to rest in the earth. I had gathered my own flowers and coins to lay in your bed alongside you, a bed you will never rise from—I hope it is comfortable and to your liking.

I did my best to dress nicely for the occasion, I even assisted in making sure that you looked just as beautiful as always, despite your fading complexion. I planted one final, gentle kiss upon your once warm cheek before they lowered you into the ground, covering their mistakes with dirt. I did not cry, I did not believe that you would have wanted me to.

She always had the warmest embrace. The way she would cradle me in her arms made it feel as if nothing else in the world mattered besides us. You were like an angel, or perhaps even a saint. Alas, your passing certainly proved to me your mortality far too soon.

I wish you would hold my face in your delicate hands once more, looking at me with the most gentle of eyes—eyes that, when gazed into, felt as if one had fallen into a pool of silk. I wish to hear your voice, reminding me that I am blessed by God, I am loved by God, but, most importantly, I am loved by you.

I wanted nothing more than to show you the world I would have created, a world without sin, just as God had intended. You would have loved it there because you would have been happy. No longer would you spend nights weeping and worrying over what you’re going to do to get through this next month, everything would be prepared for you beforehand. It would make you smile, and I believe that would make it all worthwhile.

You used to tell me that I was special, that I must be a gift from God. Though, you weren’t the only one to say that, it felt far more significant coming from you. You were different from anyone else, you weren’t tainted by humanity’s sin.

At least, you used to be clean…

Oh, my dearest mother, what did they do to you? Why did they push their grievances upon you? You had nothing to do with their affairs, you were but a bystander, and yet they hurt you.

What a terrible experience it is to feel the warmth flee from someone’s body along with their life, especially when that someone is your own mother. Discovered laying on the kitchen floor, mouth agape with that crimson ink spilling from it—there was blood pooling around the body on the floor. She was barely recognizable, not because of any disfigurement, but because she was a woman of strong faith.

What could have driven someone so dedicated to God to such an act?

You were once so pure, free of sin, I thought you were above it. Yet, they tainted you. They hurt my mother. You left this world—you left me in one of the most sinful ways possible. I wonder if they’re proud of what they did to you.

These sinful people, filled with nothing but greed and driven by desire, they soiled your good name. They disgust me beyond belief, and yet, I still pity them. If only there was someone who could save them from their sin…

God ensures everything happens for a reason, right mama?

I will show them the light of God. They will soon know the meaning of my name. May they repent and pray for God’s forgiveness at the pearly gates. I do not care if they are forgiven or not, part of me hopes they will be damned for the rest of their time away from the Earth.

I hate them.

I hate them all.

May God pity their souls, it’s the only hope they have left.

Even now, I feel you embracing me; so warm and comforting, it feels like home. I will take you with me to a new world.

I will make you proud, mama.

— Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Mother of God, Son of God.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆In His Garden…

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Kyouka Izumi, implied Atsushi Nakajima + ADA members

─❏ Synopsis: A flower born in the darkness can find light

─❏ A/N: i love kyouka and atsushi’s sibling relationship

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

35 people.

35 innocent lives stolen by the deceivingly small hands of a young girl.

35 living, breathing human beings with homes and families and loved ones, with a bright future ahead of them. Their flames smothered by the blade.

All within just six months.

Don’t feel. Don’t think. If you feel, you’ll lose your mind amongst the streams of blood that flow at your sandals, don’t get your feet wet.

Do whatever it takes to survive. Do anything to get the job done. Hurt others, hurt yourself if you must. The pain you inflict by your own hands is nowhere near as sharp and as devastating as the pain they will inflict on you.

Just keep living. Just keep breathing. Breathe in.

The air is heavy, it hurts when it fills your lungs, it’s suffocating, it smells of metal and regret.

Remain poised. Your petals only flourish in the darkness, pay no mind to the withering edges for they are not anything you have the time or luxury to worry about.

Do not falter. Never waver. Keep your blade steady, keep your balance centered, keep the target in your playing field.

Tick, tick. It matches the rhythm of your heart and yet it is not, your heart keeps you alive and this device does anything but keep you alive, it will make you shrivel and fall into dust.

This is your last mission. There is no one to save you now, no hope for you. If you die young, you die pretty, right? At least… on the outside. Maybe someone will see my body drifting along and view my petals as young and innocent, not bloodied and guilt ridden.

Breathe out.

There is light.

A warm embrace. The warmth of another person enveloping me as if I am the most delicate flower, shielding me from the cold. Warmth that radiates from steady hands that scoop me up from my roots beneath the rotting tree and carry me over to his garden, his beautiful garden.

I love his garden.

While my roots have taken a while to spread and settle, the other flowers have quickly come to accept me and take me in as if I were born into their family.

Family. I love my family.

I feel content. They believe in me, they give me hope for my future. I know now that I can be a good person, that I can save people instead of hurt them. I can preserve life instead of ending it. I’m so happy in my family’s garden. I love the way the sun feels on my petals and leaves. I love soaking it in and sharing it with those I care for.

I am not a flower of darkness as they said I was. I do not burn in the light, I am not blinded and naïve. I flourish in the light. I am happy. I am alive. I am a daffodil—a new beginning.

I hope you’re proud of who I’m becoming, Mom.

— Kyouka Izumi

a daffodil in his garden.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆A Heart for a Heart

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky, implied Nikolai Gogol

─❏ Synopsis: A rat is searching for its meal in the unforgiving Russian winter, instead it finds a mourning dove in a cage of bone.

─❏ A/N: also had fun with the symbolism for this piece, eat up fyolai-ers

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

A mourning dove confined to a cage carved from bone and a black rat who arrived at the smell of blood.

The dove’s plumage is thick and soft, the colors resembling that of tea with milk. This is quite deceiving, however, considering that underneath blood is pooling and beginning to seep through the feathers.

It was this blood that the rat had been so attracted to. The rat is starving, it is on the brink of freezing in the northern cold. Its black coat is slick with a slight sheen, the fur clings to its frail, trembling body. The rat stares at the dove with its beady eyes, assessing its possible meal.

The mourning dove is trapped in a cage of bone. The bone is carved with intricate and mesmerizing patterns, some gaps being slightly larger than others but not big enough for the dove to squeeze through. The rat, however, has no problem maneuvering through the bars.

The rat stands before the dove, just outside of the cage. While it is well aware that it may slip between the bars, the rat errs on the side of caution seeing as it is not fully aware of the dove’s physical state. The dove seems to beckon the rat closer but the latter maintains its distance, much to the disliking of the dove.

Days go by, the rat observes the dove and notes its behaviors, keeping a mental log. The dove slams itself into the bars of bone repeatedly, acquiring a multitude of injuries from such activities. It will tear at the bars with its feet and beak, the reward coming when a faint crack can be heard, signaling to the bird that the effort was not wasted. It is a rather pitiful pursuit to observe, but the dove does not back down from the path towards freedom.

The rat, meanwhile, will lay and watch. The frail creature shivers in the cold, only curling further in on itself. The rodent is starving, it is considering leaving the dove in pursuit of an easier source of nutrition. If the rat does not leave it risks dying due to starvation or hypothermia, neither of which being a peaceful way to leave the world.

On a particular day, the dove is preening itself methodically, a few loose feathers are picked out and set aside by the bird. The rat is still curled up outside of the cage, shivering rather violently in the frigid air, seemingly asleep. That is, until it is awoken by a soft tickle on its side. The mourning dove offers its feathers to the rat as well as some of the food stored in the cage. The rat, while hesitant at first, accepts the offering from the dove. It feasts upon the food it was given and uses the feathers for warmth.

The sharing of food becomes a commonplace between the black rat and the mourning dove. Over time the two seem to grow closer, forming a bond. Despite their differences, they seem to have found a trust and understanding of one another.

A bond between such different creatures is peculiar and yet admirable, in a sense. However, at the end of the day they will always be a rat living outside, free to go wherever it pleases, and a dove trapped within a cage of bone, struggling every day to gain its freedom.

A man as vile as a rat, guided by the divine, befriends a man who’s heart longs for freedom but is trapped within a cage of his own body. A man devoted to God walking beside a man wishing to oppose God. What a peculiar pair, and yet they feel seen by one another.

Perhaps a boy with raven-black hair will give a key to a boy with moonlight for hair. Perhaps the white haired boy will open the door to the cage of bone and remove the dove from its confinement. Perhaps the white haired boy will offer the dove to the black haired boy, the boy who will hesitate, scared of his own tiny hands, but will accept and cup the bird gently in his hands.

Perhaps together they will care for the mourning dove and the black rat.

That is, if the black haired boy is ever willing to hand over his heart.

— Fyodor Dostoevsky

A key shaped hole in his heart.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆O Child of Death

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky

─❏ Synopsis: Living unable to feel the warmth of another’s life in one’s hands…

─❏ A/N: tldr: fyodor is touch starved lmao

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Touch.

Something every being craves, whether they wish to admit it or not. Not everyone knows how to seek it out. Some fear the ridicule of others that comes from seeking touch out—being called attention seeking or other, more vulgar words.

Such is a dilemma: everyone needs attention, physical and emotional, and yet society has dehumanized that need. Those who live in fear of others may never receive all that they need and what they have a right to receive, just because they possess a weak mindset. How pitiful, truly…

Now what should one do if they cannot touch at all. They do not fear societal backlash—no, no—they fear hurting those they come into contact with.

Hands cold. No one to fill them with warmth.

O child of death, God has forsaken thee.

Hands of death.

Reaching out with boney fingers, following the warmth of the body before them. They are just within reach. Hands shaking—trembling. Is it from the cold, the frost that bites so harshly at the tips of one’s digits, or does one shake out of fear?

Tiny hands clutch onto something. Something warm. Something soft. It feels so relieving, so comforting and safe.

The comfort only lasts for a simple fleeting moment.

Tiny hands clutch onto what was once warm turning cold. The rhythmic beating under the soft surface is fading—it has stopped completely.

The owner of these tiny hands gazes up to see a person—well, what was once a person but is now no more than a corpse. They curse their own hands, curse their own touch.

Why must such tiny hands bring about such destruction?

Tiny hands—my hands, not so tiny any more, will never know the touch of another person without knowing the fear of “what if”.

O child of death, use thy hands to bring about the Lord's salvation.

My hands only serve one purpose and that is to serve He who is gazing upon me from Heaven.

But… Why must I still long for the affection I see others receive?

It’s not fair. Nothing in life is fair anyways. I simply grow used to this painful feeling that claws at my heart, attempting to fog my mind. Never shall I let myself be misguided by human temptations.

O child of death…

— Fyodor Dostoevsky

“child of death”.

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆A Gift of Sin

─❏ Warnings: none

─❏ Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky

─❏ Synopsis: Fyodor receives a rather strange gift: an apple. Is it perhaps poisoned or an invitation or does it have another meaning?

─❏ A/N: i loved doing the research for the symbolism of apples for this piece

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Man made from God cannot help but admire the red fruit of knowledge that the trees green leaves tuck away, hiding behind the foliage but peeking out still to tempt man to take a bite. Man’s need to give in to this temptation is where their sin lies; the Fall of Man, the Book of Genesis.

What draws man to the fruit? Is it the seductive red glare of its supple skin—so easy to sink into with one’s teeth. Red is indeed the color of desire, the idea would not be far fetched.

What should one do when given an apple? How should one interpret the offering? Such a simple fruit has so many different meanings and interpretations…

For example, an apple can be seen as a symbol for seduction, it can be seen as something sensual. This is perhaps because of the fruit's comparison to intimate parts of one’s body. The color is likely another factor; I do not believe someone wishing to seduce another would give a person a green apple, it is not as appealing to the eye—it lacks temptation.

A gift of an apple can be seen as a form of endearment as well. The apple represents knowledge and beauty. Its nearly perfectly round shape is occasionally compared to the cosmos and totality. What creature does not strive for perfection?

That is another reason why the apple is so beautiful. Some give it to another person as a way of making romantic advances. One could draw the conclusion that the apple was given with romantic—and possibly somewhat erotic—intentions.

However, the apple sitting on my desk before me as I write this was most likely not given to me with the intention of winning over my solitary heart. The sender likely had much darker intentions than simply trying to make me swoon.

The apple is so incredibly tempting. One cannot help but desire the sweet nectar trapped beneath the skin. It would be so easy to sink one’s canines in, puncturing the tight, yet soft, skin on the surface in order to feast upon the fruit’s flesh and blood. Such an animalistic desire—and yet that desire is incredibly human.

Considering the temptation that comes with the apple, one must consider the possibility of deceit hidden somewhere within. Apples are commonly used as symbols of death, especially in media and literature. The thin skin that clings to the flesh is coated with the sender's venom. They wish to see the nectar seep from your own skin—that beautiful crimson ink provided within one’s own body.

I’ve had plenty of experience with poisonous apples myself. I would not put it past this person to give the fruit to me with such intentions.

What tempts me even more, however, is the idea that biting into this gift that originated from the heavens could indeed kill me. Battling against the grasp of death is rather exciting, I’ve fought this battle many times already, in fact. Perhaps he knows that the true seduction of this gift is dancing with death—the challenge is always what gets me really going.

Alas, temptation is one of man’s biggest sins. That is another meaning behind the apple: sin and the fall of man. Would I really stoop so low as to put myself on the same level as the average man just for the high of the challenge? Will I really make the same decision as the foolish man who took the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, disobeying God and taking advantage of His gifts?

Though, I was never told not to take this challenge… Sometimes one must fall back to keep advancing forward.

Perhaps I will allow myself to give in to my humanity—my desires.

What an exciting game this will be…

— Fyodor Dostoevsky

reflecting upon a “gift” he had received.

[sinfulpunishment]

› 〉 📂 .ೃ MASTERLIST

FYODOR —

| The Pain of Love

| And on That Day

| A Farewell Letter

| A Gift of Sin

| O Child of Death

| A Heart for a Heart

| Hail Mary

| If I Sin…

| To Let Go of Fear

CHUUYA —

| Dog Bites

| A Vessel

ODA —

| Small, Gradual Changes

| The Day I Picked Up a Burnt Black Cat

| To New Beginnings…

| … And To Letting Go

KYOUKA —

| In His Garden…

[sinfulpunishment]

✎ᝰ┆And On That Day

─❏ Warnings: gore & s/h

─❏ Characters: Fyodor Dostoevsky

─❏ Synopsis: Fyodor discovers his ability as a child.

─❏ A/N: this is one of my favorites

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

There was no warning.

A small boy, frail and blushed with a fine, rosy color, is guided by his feet from the towering cathedral to his own abode where those he is familiar with await his return. His hair pulled neatly back and held together with a purple ribbon, regal and beautiful to match his eyes. Those eyes filled with a surprising innocence—surprising due to the sins he had just bore witness to despite being in a supposed “holy” place. Dressed in his sunday best, a nice, pure white color with shades of cream mixed in and accents of purple and the occasional black.

The boy stopped on the side of the stone pathway after some flowers—white lilies—had caught his eye amongst the vegetation. He ignored the risk of staining his linens with the lively green from the grass, kneeled in it and began to gather the flowers. That was, until he discovered something among those innocent, white lilies.

He found that the white lilies had hidden a small sparrow, some crimson ink splattered around the fragile creature. After observing the bird very carefully, studying it, he realized it was in fact still breathing. The young boy decided to become the sparrow's savior.

Foolish decision.

The foolish child picked up the bird only for that exact same crimson ink that decorated the flowers to come and splatter on his own linens. The bird had stopped breathing suddenly, squawking in pain as if it were begging for its life in its final moments.

The once innocent child soon realized that this bird was no sparrow, instead it was a crow—a dead, young crow. And now that crows blood stained every bit of the child’s mind.

What a foolish child he had been to believe that not only was the bird a sparrow, but also that he would be able to save it.

The child carried the dead crow home in his hands, cold and lifeless, he still held onto the idea that he could do something for it. He hid it away in the basement, wrapping it in a scrap of white fabric. The crimson of the crow stained the fabric, evidence of the young man’s crime.

Every day the boy would check on the crow, hoping he could do something to save it—childlike delusions.

That is, until one day he found the crows carcass on the floor, the scrap of fabric had been torn and thrown to the side. Surrounding the carcass were the carriers of disease themselves: rats. They gnawed at the bones, tearing the day's old flesh off and spitting out the feathers. Their whiskers laden with blood and chunks of their meal. Suddenly the boy realized that the room had smelled like death the entire time. This most certainly was his punishment.

While at first he was horrified that the rats would do such a thing, he soon realized why they had done it: to survive. Every living being has a certain urge to live, whether they recognize it or not. As the child stood before the rats his innocence disappeared, as if it had been sucked out of him completely. He observed the rats with careful eyes, making notes on their every movement and every decision.

His only thought for the creatures before him was how pathetic they looked. He knew that if he were to bring them food they would all begin to beg for it, scurrying around his feet, trying to trip him or make him drop just one scrap. If he gave them said food he would then be regarded as their savior in their simplistic minds.

The boy wondered how desperate they would get… he decided to test this. He retrieved a small blade from where it had been tucked away in his boot, revealing it, he brought it up to his hand—his own crimson ink trickled down into a pool before the vermin. While puzzled at first they quickly began to drink it.

They were dependent on him.

They needed him.

They are nothing without me.

That boy grew up, tearing the thorns from his eyes to reveal the true sins of this world and of humanity. The boy turned towards God and promised to help fulfill his wishes. That boy took on the life of the man you see before you, the one known as Fyodor Dostoevsky.

And so, I shed my own blood to allow those who wish to devote themselves to me drink it, to give them the permission to live under God’s will.

Death is a necessity to life.

I am a necessity to life.

— Fyodor Dostoevsky

Reflections on a “past” life.