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 asks, even though he's given up on expecting a spoken response.
Glancing over her like a junior doctor: clinical judgement, on edge, underfed and sleep-deprived. He'd be running on coffee if he wanted to go to the kitchen and get it. She's not hot: she's not sweating; brush his fingers against her arm, there are no goosepimples. A few strands of hair have got onto her face: he brushes them away with two fingers.
It's only been three days, and he'd almost give his soul, right now, for the ability to hear her thoughts.
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 never have let it happen in the first place). The whispers rattle into her ear: it's all right, Sayu, it's all right, calm down, don't worry. I won't let you be hurt.
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 floor, he brushes her hair out of her face, again. After that, the clothes are the easiest thing to deal with - they can be readjusted, twisted back into shape. One hand underneath her, lifting her just slightly. The murmurs become another apology. In passing, the pressure from the collar is relieved.
He's positive she must need water after all that, but looking at her, it seems as if getting her to take it would be next to impossible. Instead, he covers her over with the quilt: he knows exactly how cold it's possible to get, just by lying somewhere long enough. Plus, she needs to sleep a lot more than she has, and any opportunity for it, he's going to take. He tells himself it's because she needs rest to recover, but deep down, he knows it's because she's less trouble asleep.
Sitting on the floor, next to the bed, Light can't help but wonder how much worse this is going to get. Will it be seven days? Fifteen? More?
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 asks, even though he's given up on expecting a spoken response.
Glancing over her like a junior doctor: clinical judgement, on edge, underfed and sleep-deprived. He'd be running on coffee if he wanted to go to the kitchen and get it. She's not hot: she's not sweating; brush his fingers against her arm, there are no goosepimples. A few strands of hair have got onto her face: he brushes them away with two fingers.
It's only been three days, and he'd almost give his soul, right now, for the ability to hear her thoughts.
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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 never have let it happen in the first place). The whispers rattle into her ear: it's all right, Sayu, it's all right, calm down, don't worry. I won't let you be hurt.
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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 floor, he brushes her hair out of her face, again. After that, the clothes are the easiest thing to deal with - they can be readjusted, twisted back into shape. One hand underneath her, lifting her just slightly. The murmurs become another apology. In passing, the pressure from the collar is relieved.
He's positive she must need water after all that, but looking at her, it seems as if getting her to take it would be next to impossible. Instead, he covers her over with the quilt: he knows exactly how cold it's possible to get, just by lying somewhere long enough. Plus, she needs to sleep a lot more than she has, and any opportunity for it, he's going to take. He tells himself it's because she needs rest to recover, but deep down, he knows it's because she's less trouble asleep.
Sitting on the floor, next to the bed, Light can't help but wonder how much worse this is going to get. Will it be seven days? Fifteen? More?
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