Ave Maria - A Fifth Year Anniversary Excerpt
A/N: As promised, I give to you an excerpt of the up-and-coming Death NotexElsewhere(Zevin) crossover fic, Ave Maria. For those of you who have read my earlier oneshot fic, CoffinSide, you'll notice that this piece ties in remarkably well with it, that it could be considered CoffinSide from another point of view, or even a prequel. For those of you who haven't read CoffinSide at all, I highly suggest you read it first. Of course, a link to that can be found on my stickied headpage ('Everything You Wanted To Know About Ruin Takada (But Were Too Afraid To Ask)').
This piece contains MAJOR SPOILERS for the whole series of Death Note. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, a manga by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata, nor do I own Elsewhere, a novel by Gabrielle Zevin. I make no money from this writing, but my web-provider does.
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Sachiko’s world will break down when she receives the phone call this afternoon.
It is January 28th, around 3 o’clock, and the ending theme of her soap opera has just played the last note when the phone rings. It actually cannot have been timed any better; she is all set to go to the grocery store, to be back before Sayu returns from college. A minute later, and it would have gone unheeded for the next hour or so.
When she will think back on it later (and she does, often), she will wish it doesn’t come when it does, that it does go unheeded: At least then she could pretend it doesn’t happen, that this won’t become the worst day of her life.
“Hello?” her voice is cheerful, optimistic. Looking at the caller ID and reading Aizawa’s name, she finds she has good reason - since her husband’s passing, Aizawa often calls her. She knows that he only does so out of duty and respect for his former chief, to let her know that her son is healthy and doing well filling his father’s position, but she is glad nonetheless knowing she has a dependable source of company. Occasionally Matsuda calls, but those occasions are few and far between. Sometimes, she thinks he is grieving for the loss of a father, as her children are; that, to him, she is the surrogate mother he desperately needs. That, however, is neither here nor there.
Today has been a good day. She hasn’t broken down in floods of tears once; she is beginning to look back on memories of her husband with a gladness she once thought she could never have again; and Ryuuga has finally found out about his girlfriend’s scandalous liaisons with her university professor and left that bitch for good. Of course, Watase revealed that she is pregnant with (allegedly) his child expressly to keep him nearby, but that just means some exciting storylines for the rest of the year. There’s no doubt this claim will affect everyone in the neighbourhood.
There is silence on the other end of the phone. She is certain that Aizawa is there, for she can hear him breathing heavily, the handset pressed against her ear, but for a while he doesn’t speak. This isn’t like him. Once the pleasantries are out of the way, he usually proceeds to pass along messages, keep her updated. Sometimes, he even asks her about her day. Right now, though, he says nothing. He is usually so eloquent.
Is he at a loss for words? What does he have to say? Why did he call?
Finally, after so many minutes, she hears an inhale. She imagines that he’s struggling with something. “Yagami-san?” he asks.
“Yes?”
“We’ve caught Kira.”
Sachiko doesn’t believe what she’s hearing, not at first. The information enters her brain, but it is beyond comprehension. What? Is… is he serious? She isn’t even sure if what he said is true, considering what this truth will mean to her.
It will mean that the struggle is over; that six years of her family’s disintegration from the killer’s poison can be cured, and they can be a family again. It will be the avenging of her husband’s death. A reward, the justification of all her son’s work and effort, of all her daughter’s suffering, of the whole family’s stress and edge-living in wait of an expected, inevitable phone call that would come black-bordered and tear-stained. It will be the end of depression, of the knowledge that a murderer is taking the world hostage (has been for a long time), that a killer holding her family hostage in particular is no longer called righteous, God.
“Are... are… is this true?” she stammers out.
“Yes.” Aizawa replies. “He’s gone. No one else is going to die.” The confirmation, the truth, the end of six years’ horror and speculation... it kicks her. Hits her so hard that tears spill. The struggle has ended. No more take-over. No more waiting for them to come home in dread. The happiness, the release of stress, the brightness of the future is too much, and she takes the wireless handset with her to the armchair.
Her family can find peace now. It cost so much, and there is nothing that can possibly be repaid, that she can get back, but it’s okay. She can live with that. The dark days are over. Her children are safe. We’re safe. We’re safe. Safe… safe… That is all she could ask for.
She repeats the words like a mantra in her head, and it pulls back her joy just enough to form a reply. “I’m so proud of you.” she says, smiling. “All of you - Matsuda-chan as well.” She jokes, and she permits herself a laugh.
Realising that she is laughing alone, she stops. The silence on the other end is deafening, and she doesn’t know what to say or do. Isn’t this a happy occasion? A celebration?
“Where’s Light?” she asks. She doesn’t know why she asks, exactly, why Aizawa’s silence prompts the question, but it does. “Is he celebrating with the others?”
“Yagami-san…” Aizawa begins again, slowly. “No one is celebrating.”
“What?” She doesn’t understand. Isn’t this a momentous occasion, one worthy of promotions and medals? All their hard work, paid off?
“And…” He continues, pausing to swallow. “Light isn’t with us.” His voice is quiet, and it comes with a double meaning.
“Isn’t…? Don’t be silly! Did you make him buy the drinks? Isn’t that Matsuda-chan’s job?”
Aizawa sighs again, and she imagines that he’s ruffling a hand through his newly short hair. She knows she’ll never get used to that haircut. Finally, “We suffered a casualty, Yagami-san.”
“A… a casualty? What?”
“It was Light…” Another sigh. Another heavy pause. “Kira took him with him.”
Her breath catches in her throat. Her heart stops. “No.”
“Yes. He… he fought with Kira to the end. Kira was, was just… desperate.”
What is he saying to her? She doesn’t believe it; she cannot believe it.
“I’m very sorry.” Aizawa whispers. “We were too late. There was nothing we could do.”
It’s November all over again. It’s November, but so much more intense. She feels it like a giant fist crushing her chest, stabs through her head, splintering bones, shocks to her system that hit in wave after wave after wave. She barely stifles a cry wrenched from her very centre, and she curls in on herself in the chair, knees to her chest.
When her father-in-law, old Grandpa Yagami, died so many years ago, she had admired her mother-in-law’s control of it all. How she arranged the necessary services with Soichiro, kept it together, controlled her grief so well. Sachiko, for one, couldn’t recall one time in which her mother-in-law burst into tears in the company of others, presumably reserving it all for the middle of the long nights, when no one could watch or judge. This huge well of emotional strength she’d found, Sachiko couldn’t help but admire it. She promised herself that, were something to happen to her own dear husband, she would emulate such a role model.
Of course, when something did happen, and she found herself in her mother-in-law’s position, she found emulating the control so hard. It did not help that Soichiro was too young for death, only in his early fifties - far too young for a Japanese citizen - and that it happened so far away, so far from where she could be. Rather than being met with scorn for her failures at handling grief, her mother-in-law understood. They would often find themselves crying together in the early weeks, reminiscing together in the recent weeks of January.
But this is far different. He’s… he’s only 23 years old, 24 next month. He’s still a child to her, her baby. He’s still so, so young, and so capable. To think of him as doing anything but work, but excel in her work is…
She refuses to think of it. She refuses to believe. This must be a dream, a nightmare; a clip playing in her head of the worst ever worst-case scenario that life can throw at her. Perhaps if she remains on the phone, Aizawa will tell her that her daughter is also dead, that she is all alone in this huge, cruel world.
“Yagami-san?” Sachiko tunes back to the voice from the handset, and it seems he’s been calling her name for the last couple of minutes.
“Yes?”
“We - Matsuda and I - will meet you at Ibaraki hospital, in the foyer. There’s no appointed time, just meet us when Sayu-san is available.”
“Ibaraki? But-”
“You’ll see Light there.” That reply actually calms her, and she permits a sigh to leave her lips. Her son is in the hospital. Surely, it’ll be that the solemn Aizawa-san has overplayed the severity of the situation, that his injuries are severe but, like his father, a mere heart attack isn’t nearly enough to beat him. That train of thought stops at let’s hope that he’s unlike his father when it comes to bullets.
Then again, even if he isn’t overplaying anything, and it really is as bad as he says, then maybe those skilled paramedics managed to bring him back…?
Maybe he’s in a coma, irretrievable from death, and they need my permission to pull the plug?
Or maybe… maybe he’s alive, but not alive… brain damaged… a shell of his former self?
She stops the speculations right there. It’s so easy to be driven crazy with maybes and what ifs, and what she needs is an end to the speculation, truths on which to focus.
Kira is gone.
Light is waiting at the hospital.
He needs me.
A cruel voice in the back of her mind betrays; tears her hopes asunder.
Kira has taken Light to tell with him.
Light’s wait for you in the morgue, but…
He is no more.
With a shrill cry, disregarding Aizawa’s presence on the other end, she violently banishes away that cruel voice, tears it down as she did the speculations. She doesn’t need this cynicism; it isn’t what has brought the family through this period of tragedy, of unrest, and it just won’t do now.
Even as she tries her hardest, as she sets to empty her mind of all but those driving truths, it is no use. Tears spill ever freely down her cheeks. She wishes it isn’t true, that the cruel voice doesn’t speak to her on that higher level that only Fear can reach.
Attempting to wipe away the tears, to stifle a sob, to focus on the last time she heard his voice and saw his face on the video call, to focus on his ever-binding promise of a New Year with the family… she knows it is pointless. She wishes it isn’t so, begs that it isn’t, but she knows.
That cruel, doubting voice… that harbinger of death… it sounds too much like her intuition, like her trustworthy mothering instinct.
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A/N: As you can see, I have been dabbling with a rather new style for this particular fic, an emulation of Zevin’s own in the source novel, while using what I like to call a ‘thoughtful mindlessness’ - essentially what happens when you write in the same manner as you think, rather than vetting it all from the get-go, as we tend to do. You WILL be seeing more of this style when the fic officially starts next month in January 2013, whether you like it or not.
If you have anything to say about that, or to anything else mentioned in this fic at all, whatever you have to say about it, then go ahead and put it in a comment. You know what to do.
Thank you, all. This has been an excerpt from Ave Maria to celebrate my fifth year as a fanfic writer, and we have come a long way since that December night in 2007. I thank you all for joining me, for encouraging me, for helping me become the writer I am today.
Thanks again, see you soon,
Ruin Takada XXX