oo5 - interlude. [standalone]
and i know that when it's over we'll be holding one another
we only ever wanted to feel real
Click. Click. Click.
There is something comforting about the feel of the lighter in his hand. He found it in the kitchen and he can't exactly remember how or why but he brought it back with him. It probably belongs to one of the Matts, he thinks vaguely. Maybe he should put up posters.
Click.
Both of his hands ache - the bandaged one, in the fingers of which he's delicately holding the lighter, because of the wounds; his left because of the writer's cramp. His journal, open before him, is filled with row upon row of tidy but squished lettering. None of it is good enough. There's a part of him which just wants to hold the flame to the pages and let it all go. But he can't. He can't give up, no matter how hopeless this all is. Is anybody ever going to read these words? he wonders. Is anybody ever going to understand, or care? What does he have to do to reach--?
Maybe it would be easier if L were here.
The room is empty and silent, just him and his thoughts - Light isn't entirely sure where Near has gone off to, probably the kitchen, probably somewhere safer. He doesn't think it's safe to be around him right now. His eyes are itchy and strained from the dimness of the room and lack of sleep, and he puts down his pencil briefly to rub at them.
"Why did you turn your back on me, Light?"
Light yelps and whirls around. For a second, he sees Satoshi, a flickering translucent image in the corner - then he's gone.
Why did you turn your back on me, Light? This time, the voice is in his head, and Light begins to hyperventilate. "Uncle--" he chokes out. "I-- god, I just--"
Goodbye. I'm gone now. You're never getting me back. You wasted me, Light. All those last months, think of all the talking we could have done if you hadn't turned away... when I needed you the most... Just like all those years you wasted in silence - why did you never call them? Why did you never even try to mend those bridges?
"Stop it!" The lighter clatters to the floor. "Stop it, stop it, please stop!"
It stops. Light is left alone, with himself and the sound of his breathing and his pounding heart. He curls over the desk, grinding his elbows into it and locking his hands around the back of his head, eyes pressed shut, trembling. He can hear Sachiko's voice now, but this time it's a memory - you're not my real son. No real son of mine would turn out like this.
Not her real son. He was never her real son, for seventeen years it was just a lie. Is he real at all? He doesn't feel real. Nothing feels real. Before one studies Zen, mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers; after one has gained insight into the truth of Zen, mountains are no longer mountains and rivers are no longer rivers; but once one has really attained the abode of rest, mountains are once again mountains and rivers are once again rivers. Who said that? Satoshi, wasn't it? But he was quoting, quoting somebody - and it doesn't matter. Seigen Ishin. Why is the thought, the memory, even entering his head? It is intensely random and irrelevant. Why anything? His thoughts have always felt much too large for him.
The recollected statement seems strangely pertinent the more he holds it in his head, though. So he's caught somewhere between awakening to the initial questions, and enlightenment. He has never been very good at Zen (and he knows that this way of thinking in itself probably betrays that fact), but he would like to be. How hard does he have to try? How can he stop trying and reach the actual state of things, his perception untainted by a desire to alter them? Nothing is what it seems, not when filtered through his current state of mind; nothing makes sense, nothing matches up. How long will it take for him to see things as they are, to be as he is? It feels like he has been trying for so long - sometimes it feels like he has been trying for his whole life and never getting anywhere--
Light bends down and picks up the lighter in his left hand.
Click.
For a few seconds, he just stares at the flame. Then, slowly, he brings it closer and closer to his right arm. Closer. Closer. And then his skin meets the fire and he screams, pain flaring, all-consuming. He turns off the lighter and sobs dryly, slamming it down on the desk and cradling his arm. The burn is red and angry so rational, and Light sucks in deep breaths, focusing on the inhale, exhale, inhale. Abruptly, he gets to his feet, his chair toppling over behind him to the floor with a clatter, and strides over to the sink, knocking on the water as cold as it goes and running it over the skin.
So focused is he on the burn that it's only after he shuts the water off and reaches for one of the washcloths to press over the burn that he looks up into the mirror.
He has no face.
Light's mouth drops open a little bit; but in the mirror, he has no mouth. There's just a strange, horrifying distortion of the line of his jaw. The outline of his head is there, and his ears, and his hair, but he has no features. Gasping, panicking, he does the only thing which seems sensible - he draws back his left fist and sends it towards the mirror with all the force he can muster, because he needs to get the image away.
And then it's over, shards of silvered glass everywhere. His knuckles sting horribly, and his hand is smeared with blood. Panting, sobbing, Light leans forward, pressing the flat of his palm against the center of where the mirror used to be. He dry-heaves over the sink; nothing comes out but some strings of green slime, and he stares at them, then coughs violently. Green splatters the white porcelain, and Light notices that his blood is green, too. Out of breath, almost choking, he finally manages to stop.
Then he collapses to his knees, the fragments of the broken mirror slicing into them, and sobs. Why did you turn your back on me, Light?
You're not my real son.
The tears pour uncomfortably down his face, tickling his jaw as they cluster and cling there before falling onto his jeans. Blinking furiously, through his blurred vision he sees the patches of green against blue. He starts to laugh, because there's nothing else to do, and then he's laughing and crying and he thinks that maybe he wants to die, a little bit. How much does he have to write before he can understand, before he can be understood? How can he get other people into his head, himself into other peoples'? What if he can reach out and reach out and reach out and he's never able to really touch anybody, nobody's ever really able to touch him?
I don't want to be alone like this forever.
"Not her real son," he forces out, his voice as broken as the mirror. He just wants to be himself, he just wants that to be enough - he just wants to be real. So why did he cut off all those ties? Did you think that would help you find yourself? He has done so much wrong, he thinks, so much - is that who he is, then? Alone, unable to do the right thing, hurting the people around him because he can't see any other way? Of course there's another way. There would be, if you weren't blind in your third eye.
Finally Light finds himself drained - drained of thought, drained of emotion, drained of tears, drained of blood. Everything is calm and gray and cold, and he gets to his feet, muscles aching, blows his nose and starts to clean up the slivers of glass, sweeping them into his hands and ignoring the miniscule cuts he receives. He also pries away the remaining pieces of the mirror still stuck to the wall, and puts them in the trash with the rest.
Then he stumbles back into the bedroom and picks up the acoustic guitar which he brought with him from the music room. He sinks onto the bed and launches again into the chord progressions he has been working on for the past week. It is awkward, almost impossible, with the bandages, but he snarls and forces himself to keep playing. The cuts in his fingers bleed more profusely, and soon the strings are slippery, covered with green.
He keeps playing.
The notes all sound incredibly ugly. Does he really think that anybody's ever going to listen to his music and feel transcended? Does he really think that he can create something beautiful? He's crying again, quietly, shoulders shaking - with fear? With rage? With grief? Maybe with all three. But he still can't translate the emotions into music; he can't jump the wall between him and the world.
"I can't do this. Oh god, I can't do this. I have to do this. Just let me do this."
He doesn't know who he's talking to. He doesn't know if it matters.
we only ever wanted to feel real
Click. Click. Click.
There is something comforting about the feel of the lighter in his hand. He found it in the kitchen and he can't exactly remember how or why but he brought it back with him. It probably belongs to one of the Matts, he thinks vaguely. Maybe he should put up posters.
Click.
Both of his hands ache - the bandaged one, in the fingers of which he's delicately holding the lighter, because of the wounds; his left because of the writer's cramp. His journal, open before him, is filled with row upon row of tidy but squished lettering. None of it is good enough. There's a part of him which just wants to hold the flame to the pages and let it all go. But he can't. He can't give up, no matter how hopeless this all is. Is anybody ever going to read these words? he wonders. Is anybody ever going to understand, or care? What does he have to do to reach--?
Maybe it would be easier if L were here.
The room is empty and silent, just him and his thoughts - Light isn't entirely sure where Near has gone off to, probably the kitchen, probably somewhere safer. He doesn't think it's safe to be around him right now. His eyes are itchy and strained from the dimness of the room and lack of sleep, and he puts down his pencil briefly to rub at them.
"Why did you turn your back on me, Light?"
Light yelps and whirls around. For a second, he sees Satoshi, a flickering translucent image in the corner - then he's gone.
Why did you turn your back on me, Light? This time, the voice is in his head, and Light begins to hyperventilate. "Uncle--" he chokes out. "I-- god, I just--"
Goodbye. I'm gone now. You're never getting me back. You wasted me, Light. All those last months, think of all the talking we could have done if you hadn't turned away... when I needed you the most... Just like all those years you wasted in silence - why did you never call them? Why did you never even try to mend those bridges?
"Stop it!" The lighter clatters to the floor. "Stop it, stop it, please stop!"
It stops. Light is left alone, with himself and the sound of his breathing and his pounding heart. He curls over the desk, grinding his elbows into it and locking his hands around the back of his head, eyes pressed shut, trembling. He can hear Sachiko's voice now, but this time it's a memory - you're not my real son. No real son of mine would turn out like this.
Not her real son. He was never her real son, for seventeen years it was just a lie. Is he real at all? He doesn't feel real. Nothing feels real. Before one studies Zen, mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers; after one has gained insight into the truth of Zen, mountains are no longer mountains and rivers are no longer rivers; but once one has really attained the abode of rest, mountains are once again mountains and rivers are once again rivers. Who said that? Satoshi, wasn't it? But he was quoting, quoting somebody - and it doesn't matter. Seigen Ishin. Why is the thought, the memory, even entering his head? It is intensely random and irrelevant. Why anything? His thoughts have always felt much too large for him.
The recollected statement seems strangely pertinent the more he holds it in his head, though. So he's caught somewhere between awakening to the initial questions, and enlightenment. He has never been very good at Zen (and he knows that this way of thinking in itself probably betrays that fact), but he would like to be. How hard does he have to try? How can he stop trying and reach the actual state of things, his perception untainted by a desire to alter them? Nothing is what it seems, not when filtered through his current state of mind; nothing makes sense, nothing matches up. How long will it take for him to see things as they are, to be as he is? It feels like he has been trying for so long - sometimes it feels like he has been trying for his whole life and never getting anywhere--
Light bends down and picks up the lighter in his left hand.
Click.
For a few seconds, he just stares at the flame. Then, slowly, he brings it closer and closer to his right arm. Closer. Closer. And then his skin meets the fire and he screams, pain flaring, all-consuming. He turns off the lighter and sobs dryly, slamming it down on the desk and cradling his arm. The burn is red and angry so rational, and Light sucks in deep breaths, focusing on the inhale, exhale, inhale. Abruptly, he gets to his feet, his chair toppling over behind him to the floor with a clatter, and strides over to the sink, knocking on the water as cold as it goes and running it over the skin.
So focused is he on the burn that it's only after he shuts the water off and reaches for one of the washcloths to press over the burn that he looks up into the mirror.
He has no face.
Light's mouth drops open a little bit; but in the mirror, he has no mouth. There's just a strange, horrifying distortion of the line of his jaw. The outline of his head is there, and his ears, and his hair, but he has no features. Gasping, panicking, he does the only thing which seems sensible - he draws back his left fist and sends it towards the mirror with all the force he can muster, because he needs to get the image away.
And then it's over, shards of silvered glass everywhere. His knuckles sting horribly, and his hand is smeared with blood. Panting, sobbing, Light leans forward, pressing the flat of his palm against the center of where the mirror used to be. He dry-heaves over the sink; nothing comes out but some strings of green slime, and he stares at them, then coughs violently. Green splatters the white porcelain, and Light notices that his blood is green, too. Out of breath, almost choking, he finally manages to stop.
Then he collapses to his knees, the fragments of the broken mirror slicing into them, and sobs. Why did you turn your back on me, Light?
You're not my real son.
The tears pour uncomfortably down his face, tickling his jaw as they cluster and cling there before falling onto his jeans. Blinking furiously, through his blurred vision he sees the patches of green against blue. He starts to laugh, because there's nothing else to do, and then he's laughing and crying and he thinks that maybe he wants to die, a little bit. How much does he have to write before he can understand, before he can be understood? How can he get other people into his head, himself into other peoples'? What if he can reach out and reach out and reach out and he's never able to really touch anybody, nobody's ever really able to touch him?
I don't want to be alone like this forever.
"Not her real son," he forces out, his voice as broken as the mirror. He just wants to be himself, he just wants that to be enough - he just wants to be real. So why did he cut off all those ties? Did you think that would help you find yourself? He has done so much wrong, he thinks, so much - is that who he is, then? Alone, unable to do the right thing, hurting the people around him because he can't see any other way? Of course there's another way. There would be, if you weren't blind in your third eye.
Finally Light finds himself drained - drained of thought, drained of emotion, drained of tears, drained of blood. Everything is calm and gray and cold, and he gets to his feet, muscles aching, blows his nose and starts to clean up the slivers of glass, sweeping them into his hands and ignoring the miniscule cuts he receives. He also pries away the remaining pieces of the mirror still stuck to the wall, and puts them in the trash with the rest.
Then he stumbles back into the bedroom and picks up the acoustic guitar which he brought with him from the music room. He sinks onto the bed and launches again into the chord progressions he has been working on for the past week. It is awkward, almost impossible, with the bandages, but he snarls and forces himself to keep playing. The cuts in his fingers bleed more profusely, and soon the strings are slippery, covered with green.
He keeps playing.
The notes all sound incredibly ugly. Does he really think that anybody's ever going to listen to his music and feel transcended? Does he really think that he can create something beautiful? He's crying again, quietly, shoulders shaking - with fear? With rage? With grief? Maybe with all three. But he still can't translate the emotions into music; he can't jump the wall between him and the world.
"I can't do this. Oh god, I can't do this. I have to do this. Just let me do this."
He doesn't know who he's talking to. He doesn't know if it matters.