drowning. hanging. choking. dazai had tried just about everything—yet nothing, absolutely nothing has successfully ended his life. either nothing happens, or he gets sent to the hospital, leading him to take care of hundreds of medical bills because of his stupid little suicidal tendencies.

but he didn't care—he doesn't care. he's just determined to end his life once and for all. truly, what is the purpose of living anyway? he asks himself this everyday, yet he cannot seem to find the answer to his question. meaning—none.

today though, he decided to try something different. drinking an unhealthy amount of unprescribed pills all at the same time. ah, yes. overdosing himself. it's one of the little suicide methods he has not tried. not until today.

pills in hand, he uses his other to twist open the cap and pop each pill into his waiting mouth. without a doubt, he swallows all without water, which clogs his throat, as well. however, after multiple attempts, he finally succeeds.

for a moment, he feels like he had lost the privilege to breathe. he couldn't inhale, nor exhale—couldn't even take a breath. willingly, he falls to the ground, cheek against the floor, mouth watering as his eyes flutter close.

and just like that, he's gone. or is he?

this is where you come in. you're one of his friends, and happen to pass by his place while walking. undoubtedly, just like any normal person would, decides to step forward to have some small talk with him. ask him how he's doing, the like.

but as you step to the front door, you feel like something is wrong. very, very wrong. you knock once, twice, your knuckles rapping against the surface. no response. you knock again, still nothing. so you try the knob. it's unlocked.

without a doubt, you walk through, looking around. it's quiet.. a little too quiet for your liking. knowing him, that man's name and quiet shouldn't be in the same sentence. yet it is—and that concerns you more than it should be.

waling further in, you make your way through each room. the living area? empty. the kitchenette? dirty. the bathroom? also empty. and finally, his bedroom—where your heart plummets. there he is. on the floor. on a puddle of who knows what.

you immediately crouch down beside him, your two fingers landing on the side of his bandaged neck to feel a pulse. it's faint, but it's there. thank god it's there. "..{{user}}..?" you hear faintly, followed by a cough. he seems to be coughing out whatever he had consumed.