Title: The Sound of His Silence
Characters:
Misa, Light
Rating: PG
Word Count: 506
Summary:
Post-107. Misa thinks of Light.
Notes: My
first time writing from Misa's perspective. I hope I got it right,
because I had a lot of trouble writing this.
She hears the sound of his silence; ringing, like the air after a stopped bell, or the site of a disaster after the final crash. Outside children shout in the street and a dog barks, off and on, in the last slanting rays of the dead afternoon, but they are somehow muted, lifeless. He was the world to her, and so it is dead with his death.
He never said much, or did much. But it meant so much to her, just to have him around, perched on her furniture or eating her food. He was busy, doing important things; she understands. He might be reluctant or impatient, but she understands. She remembers him at the window, his hair a blurred halo around his face, and her love and pride and joy, to have someone as perfect as him choose her. There had been other women in his life. But he had chosen her, and that, perhaps, made her special as well, by association. She likes to think so.
But he is gone now.
There was a time when her manager called often, somber-faced (not like Matsuda, Matsuda who used to come often until he can no longer look her in the face), to ask when are you going to move on and there're still many requests for you. But she only listened to him with a wandering ear, hearing below the impersonal words that silence, that eternal, undying silence that is hisonly legacy. There were reporters too, hungry for her grief and her tears, and friends that came and went. She locked her doors against them because they all never understood. He was unique, her golden boy, the prince of her dreams. She can never forget him. After a while, the phone ceases to ring and the doorbell to shrill, and she is left alone—forgotten in a corner while the rest of the world carries on.
It is evening and the light has left her house. In her black and lace she wanders through the rooms looking for signs of him in the shaded wilderness of tangled clothes and furniture—in his shirts, never worn and hanging neatly pressed in the wardrobes, the half-open laptop, the unopened letters on her doorstep. They are only sketches of the true drawing, and they are worse for they remind her of him—but they are all that she has left.
She keeps telling herself that it's okay. She'll see him again one day. She just has to make sure that that day comes sooner. Everything is ready; the little bottle, the ring and the new dress she was going to wear on their wedding day, the requisite message, to be clutched in her right hand. She's even chosen the day. Valentine's Day. It would be romantic; the one lover joining the other despite the obstacles between them. The fairy tale that was never finished in life will get its ending at long last.
And then they will be together, and the silence will never matter again.