No Longer Human

A story inspired by Dazai Osamu and H.P. Lovecraft

“A toast.” - She raised her bottle.

“A toast. To a life that’s not worth living.” - And I raised mine.

Bleach didn’t have a taste, just an awful burn, like someone shoving their hands down your mouth and throat, then start clawing and scratching and peeling. The urge to vomit was overwhelming, but we already had a plan.

“I love you.”

“Me too.” - I felt a cough coming, and instinctively put my right hand up to cover my mouth. She stopped me.

“This is our moment. Don’t let the world in.” - She held my face close to hers.

I couldn’t hold it anymore, and specks of blood covered her face. She seemed to enjoy it.

"The World did this to you. To us." - She tightened the rope that bind us together by the waist. Straining from the act, she coughed in my face, returning the favour.

The World did. They did. They have stopped me before. But I've finally outsmarted them. No more shall they haunt my dreams.

We jumped. The roaring, crushing, freezing water was the embraced I’ve ever yearned.

“Will I finally die…” - The current drown out my thoughts, but not my memories.

My life up to that point has been a constant run. The monsters, the lot of them, disguising themselves in human forms. My apprehension, upon discovering that I might be the only man left on Earth, led me to groan night after night in bed, pushing me closer to the brink of madness. I learned to keep my mouth shut, because one wrong word may be the end of me. Therefore, I smiled, playing the role of those monsters/men.

“Leave your shenanigans out of the dining room, Jack! Eating is important! We HUMANS live to eat, because it gives us energy to work and to carry on with our lives. So EAT!” - The “father” said.

Ever since I was born, I have never learned what “hunger” was. The dreadful mealtimes, where the “family” gathered and shared food, was unbearable as a child. Why do we need three meals a day? And why are these monsters always so quiet when they eat? Is it some kind of ritual? Are they praying to their Gods? Upon thinking that, I felt eyes staring at me, from above the ceiling, from under the floors, from behind those doors. The father took the form of a 50-year-old male, with a long white mane and long bushy beard that demanded respect. I remembered comparing him to Simba, for his looks and my urge to tramble him under my heels. Him and the “family members” around me. Always, it would be the “sisters” by my side, giggling and nodding at each other, having fun with their devilish schemes. Looking right at them, you could never doubt they were humans, but at the corners of my, I glimpsed the shadow tendrils coming from their brains. Was it an infestation that turned them this way?

“Of course, father! But I can’t eat! I’m a snail.” - I chewed the rice into a paste, then stuck my tongue out and sucked it back in.

That got a laugh out of them, and I laughed along. I have always lived in Hell. A Hell of my own thoughts. I caught on to them quickly: as long as I can make them laugh, they would stop their intense, constant surveillance of me. Whenever I turned my back, I knew they were watching. But when they laughed, their eyes were closed. Gradually, I perfected my role as the eccentric son.

For so long, I have managed to survive. To deceive them. Yet as time ticked on, the only feeling that condensed inside me like a tumor, was fear. I fear their Gods, or some entity of a higher rank than they were, would see through my act and shame me in front of them, before sticking their tendrils inside me, wiping away my humanity. Being the youngest in the family, and the jokester, I knew I was being looked down on, not only from the parents and the siblings, but the maids and butlers.

I was molested by them. I could have complained about their crime, but quickly saw no point in it. They were numerous, and every of my argument or plea would have been shut down with excuses that fit into their World. So I endured.

Until one day, he came. I made a name for myself at school as the klutz, the class clown, the monster-pleaser. In other words, bottom of the food chain, a herbivore. The monsters at school were more occupied than ones at home, so they don’t require a constant dosage of laughter. I was left alone most of the time, and although the fear was still breaking down my body, there was no pressure to put the smile on.

He, Will, was scrawny, with a face swollen and diseased, with his two front teeth stuck out like an umbrella. He didn’t do well in any class, and more often than not would skip P.E. per “illness.” He had no redeeming qualities. Little did I know it was all an act to observe me. One day, when I pretended to slip on a banana peel during a run (I brought the banana peel as prop), I attracted a serviceable amount of attention. Will, however, slammed the last nail on my coffin:

“You did it on purpose.”

“I… I beg your pardon?” I was trembling.

“You did it on purpose.” Will repeated himself, and I could see his tendrils were swirling and squirming, reaching for me through his pointed finger.

So I ran, knowing for certain that he would soon tell the others.

“I have to do something!” I said to myself, and I did the only thing I knew how to do: try and win him over.

One day after school, I started my plan.

“Will, do you want to come hang out at my place? We just got the new video game system.” - All I got was a blank stare and silence.

Days after days, Will ignored me, and I did the only thing I could think of: kill him. The act was quick and simple. Our part of the country was mostly farm fields tended by automated machines. All I had to do was followed him after school, and slammed his head with a stone exactly where the tendrils came out off. Afterall, I did it before with one of my sisters, her body still unfound until this day.

The water was filling my lungs, and the bleach was dissolving my stomach, but I couldn’t help but tremble from the memory. Not with guilt or remorse, but with an irrepressible happiness and relief I haven’t felt before nor since. But I was too late in killing Will. He must have reported me, because the stares became physical. Not only could I feel it prickling the back of my head, now their eyes pierces my skin, causing an itch that spread throughout my body. No amount of medicine worked, even when I was alone in my room. And sometimes, I swore I could hear a male’s whisper.

“You did it on purpose.”