It's so much easier not to- to just not do this. It's like if she doesn't acknowledge it, it isn't happening. She isn't here. This isn't her body. Nothing is really happening, nothing that happened really happened. Sayu is aware of time passing, but only vaguely. Every once in a while she feels pressure, vertigo, discomfort, warmth or cold. The sensations are disconnected from the world; they're things happening, not responses paired with stimuli.
She's lying in bed, and the collar of her sweater is tugging at her throat. The pressure isn't comfortable, and it reminds her of things that didn't happen.
It's the same posture he adopts so routinely, by now: on the bed, tucked away in the corner, the pillow behind him. The sketchbook's open on his lap. He's been drawing people: unrecognisable people. You'd think the girl in the bed would be an obvious model, but instead all the crude figures have pale, shoulder-length hair, and a crosshatching of burns over their face, and huge, wide, staring eyes. Dead eyes. Light is laying out his hate and his vengeance on paper.
The moan, though, catches his attention right away. He supposes it's like having a baby: you learn to cope, and to interpret. Is she hungry? Unlikely: she doesn't ever seem to want to eat. Does she need the bathroom? No, that was an hour ago. There's a sundial in the window, constructed from paper and packaging. He's working on calibrating it, off and on.
"Sayu." Detached and tired as it is, as much as the parade of being at attention has shaved his nerves to a tangle of filaments, it still sounds cheerful for Light. He'll make it cheerful. "What's the trouble?" He always
( ... )
He'd known she did this: he'd expected it before now. The week of the funeral: the nurse he'd had brought in to help. Sachiko had been in no condition to look after her, and here and there, Light had helped. It had distracted him.
There's nothing to distract him now, and nobody to help him. And there she is, jacknifing on the bed as if she hasn't been mostly immobile for three days. The wall's behind her: is she going to smack her head into it? Eggshell fractures, bleeding, anoxia. Subdural haematomas. Pulling out the pillow from beneath her, he leans it against the wall, mirroring the one on his own bed. A hand on her forehead, trying to restrain her, trying to calm her, like an animal. Moving with her, the other arm goes across her stomach, rests on her arm, trying to keep her from flailing too wildly, or knocking into anything too hard...
It's probably the worst thing he can do, and yet it's the only thing he can do. This is wrong: he should be able to fix it (and, a hateful whisper in the base of his mind reminds him, he should
( ... )
She's been too still, she hasn't eaten enough, she's barely slept. Sayu tires herself out after a few minutes. The struggles get weaker, and then cease, leaving her gasping incoherent complaints. This isn't right, this isn't fair, this isn't happening.
She isn't here. This isn't her body. She just has to remember that.
"It's all right. It's all right. You see? It's over." Amazing, how easily the patter of nothing - which over the last few minutes has gone from a whisper to a murmur to a strained, subdued yell - how easily it pours out, when he wants. How much he can talk without saying anything at all. Or perhaps it isn't surprising: isn't it one of his talents? Talking about nothing while the sky is falling around him? Shards of white porcelain and blue paint smacking on the ground, flying up to cut his face.
He's gasping, leaning over the bed: something about holding a small girl down while she does her best to fracture a limb or two has exhausted him. Her hair's a mess: her clothes are a wreck. It's all he can do, just at present, to rest his head in one hand, over the edge of the bed. The moan in the back of his own throat is very, very quiet. Barely there. He doesn't want to move.
She hasn't been turned yet, so he rolls her onto her stomach. I'm going to turn you over now. One. Two. Three. Forgive me. Before quite dropping back down onto the
( ... )
She's lying in bed, and the collar of her sweater is tugging at her throat. The pressure isn't comfortable, and it reminds her of things that didn't happen.
Sayu starts moaning, faintly.
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The moan, though, catches his attention right away. He supposes it's like having a baby: you learn to cope, and to interpret. Is she hungry? Unlikely: she doesn't ever seem to want to eat. Does she need the bathroom? No, that was an hour ago. There's a sundial in the window, constructed from paper and packaging. He's working on calibrating it, off and on.
"Sayu." Detached and tired as it is, as much as the parade of being at attention has shaved his nerves to a tangle of filaments, it still sounds cheerful for Light. He'll make it cheerful. "What's the trouble?" He always ( ... )
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She starts thrashing violently, gasping, trying to fight him (and everyone else) off.
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There's nothing to distract him now, and nobody to help him. And there she is, jacknifing on the bed as if she hasn't been mostly immobile for three days. The wall's behind her: is she going to smack her head into it? Eggshell fractures, bleeding, anoxia. Subdural haematomas. Pulling out the pillow from beneath her, he leans it against the wall, mirroring the one on his own bed. A hand on her forehead, trying to restrain her, trying to calm her, like an animal. Moving with her, the other arm goes across her stomach, rests on her arm, trying to keep her from flailing too wildly, or knocking into anything too hard...
It's probably the worst thing he can do, and yet it's the only thing he can do. This is wrong: he should be able to fix it (and, a hateful whisper in the base of his mind reminds him, he should ( ... )
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She isn't here. This isn't her body. She just has to remember that.
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He's gasping, leaning over the bed: something about holding a small girl down while she does her best to fracture a limb or two has exhausted him. Her hair's a mess: her clothes are a wreck. It's all he can do, just at present, to rest his head in one hand, over the edge of the bed. The moan in the back of his own throat is very, very quiet. Barely there. He doesn't want to move.
She hasn't been turned yet, so he rolls her onto her stomach. I'm going to turn you over now. One. Two. Three. Forgive me. Before quite dropping back down onto the ( ... )
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