(while dazai could be freaking out, he's not. he's collected as he returns, fixing the his trenchcoat on his figure as he moves around the apartment for a cigarette pack, an ashtray, a lighter. it's simply stalling to give the other more time to think, process. he doesn't think he's stupid - after all, he's simply innocent. that's what it comes down to.
he lights it with grace, the drag he takes long and he allows the smoke to sit in his lungs for a moment before blowing it above his head.)
Before I was an Executive, I was on a mission to move counterfeit money, but I got shot a few times, and I thought that was it. Here, here, here... I think here-- oh, no, that one was someone else.
(he points on his stomach, his chest. his skin is marked by so much pain, no wonder he is covered from head to toe.)
A man found me, and he took me against my will - because, of course, I was happy I was finally going to kick it. He tied me up so I wouldn't run and he kept treating me, even while I was trying my best to make him so sick of me he'd kill me himself. I later found out that this man, so humble, so disgustingly good of a person, was a very dangerous killer - who decided to become a writer. Due to this, he decided never to kill again, because he couldn't write about people while being their suffering. The last thing he asked of me before he died in my arms was to become a good person and save others. With this background, the story I want to tell you is hardly my own. Will you listen?
no subject
he lights it with grace, the drag he takes long and he allows the smoke to sit in his lungs for a moment before blowing it above his head.)
Before I was an Executive, I was on a mission to move counterfeit money, but I got shot a few times, and I thought that was it. Here, here, here... I think here-- oh, no, that one was someone else.
(he points on his stomach, his chest. his skin is marked by so much pain, no wonder he is covered from head to toe.)
A man found me, and he took me against my will - because, of course, I was happy I was finally going to kick it. He tied me up so I wouldn't run and he kept treating me, even while I was trying my best to make him so sick of me he'd kill me himself. I later found out that this man, so humble, so disgustingly good of a person, was a very dangerous killer - who decided to become a writer. Due to this, he decided never to kill again, because he couldn't write about people while being their suffering. The last thing he asked of me before he died in my arms was to become a good person and save others. With this background, the story I want to tell you is hardly my own. Will you listen?