Nice to know you
An average day in Wammy's House. From the big, ebony-lined windows of the study hall, B could see leaves falling—violent oranges, dead browns and occasional greens, of premature leaves that died too early due to the change of seasons. They floated quietly downwards, as if in respect to a ritual.
B imagined them landing in heaps and piles, and the vivid crunch of leaves as children jumped in. Crush of leaves' corpses, against the backdrop of a dull and chilly autumn sky. In his mind, there was something morbid about this, if not artistic.
He sighed. He'd realized that he had a tendency to distort reality unnecessarily, and that this tendency was more noticeable when he was bored. He shifted his eyes from the window and looked at the pile of books in front of him. They were arranged in a neat tower. Notes and bookmarks stuck out neatly from the old, yellowing pages. Ten sheets of legal pad paper curled from the amount of space consumed by small, precise handwriting.
"Have I studied enough now…?" he whispered to himself. As an afterthought, he stuck his thumb in his mouth. Clammy skin and soft flesh felt foreign against his teeth.
He stared at his notes. Frustrated, he crumpled them all and threw them in a rubbish bin a few metres away. "No. L would have done better than that. I've got to get better. B, you aren't done yet," he said.
At that moment, he heard an indistinct growling from deep within his stomach. Curiously, he clutched his tummy and thought, analytically, why his stomach was growling. "My stomach must think it's hungry because I hadn't eaten anything today. But I can't possibly step down from this chair now," he thought, staring at his toes, which wiggled as they dangled at the edge of the seat. "If I do… then I'd fail, wouldn't I? Yes… I would, I would," he whispered.
"What?"
B jumped. He landed to face the person who asked the question. Narrowing his eyes, he asked the person, "What is it?"
The way B said it had its usual seriousness and sternness that the person thought it was a demand. "Oh… sorry, I thought you were saying something to me…" A bashful reply seemed befitting in this situation.
"Oh. I wasn't. I'm sorry," said B. "Linda, was it?... yes, you've been standing there for a while now, I noticed… What have you got there?"
"I… I mean, Mr. Roger said that some of the upperclassmen were studying hard for their exams, and that some of them probably hadn't eaten yet, so he said that we ought to give them some food to eat, sir," she stammered. The tray held in her hands shook slightly, making the plates and utensils make small, tinkling noises.
B blinked. He stared at her terrified, unblinking eyes for a good ten seconds before shifting his attention to the tray. There was a plate with toasted bread, a packet of butter, and around five pots of strawberry jam on it. "I see. Thank you," he said. He took the pots of jam from the tray and put them on the desk.
Linda stared at him as he opened one of the pots and downed the contents of it, as if it were a cup of coffee. "Um," she began, and she pushed the tray at some free space on his desk.
"No need for the toast, my dear," he said. "But if you could, please bring me more jam." He looked at her with wide eyes.
What happened next was a strange phenomenon. First Linda was staring at him—those strange, normal-sized eyes of hers—and the next, her face crumpled like a sheet of yellow paper and she was covering her mouth. And then a strange noise was coming out of her mouth. For a moment, it sounded like a dying animal, and then it metamorphosed into high-pitched, magnetic, computer-distorted noise. And it was as if she's got to keep all the noise inside her body, or else she'd die.
Put simply, it was a violent, girly, giggle fit. And yet B found it so alien that all he could do was to stare—a wide-eyed, uncertain stare, something that takes in all the details, the type that L gives people when he's caught off-guard.
"Yes, sir! Now I know why some of the kids told me not to bother toasting the bread," she said after her giggle fit. She took the tray and tottered off cheerfully.
She was gone seconds after that, the clattering of knifes and plates that could be broken echoing throughout the hallway. There was silence after that, but those waves of sound reverberated in his mind for more than a few moments.
"… that's the first time I've heard someone laugh… isn't it?" he whispered to himself.
A drop of strawberry jam dangling from his index finger fell like water on his desk.
It was a few weeks after exams period that B had this conversation with himself:
"B, that's no good, no good at all. You aren't good enough to be L, B… You may be smart, but you've got to be smarter… even if it seems like you couldn't do it, B, you've got to be smarter… especially since we can't make you smarter…"
He cursed out loud and threw a hardback book out his bedroom window. Glass shattered. Sharp shards of light scattered and flew at him like daggers. In his mind, he's got small holes all over his body, shaped like the pupils of a reptile glaring at the sun.
There were footsteps outside his bedroom before. Perhaps they thought that there was somebody else in the room, but upon hearing the glass, they scampered off like mice.
"What is this…" he said. Now, he was facing the mirror. He tried distorting his face with his mind. There was the spiky black hair, unclean and shiny with human oils; the dark, panda eyes polluted with red capillaries and water and salt; pale skin, which was before untouched by other human hands and sunlight; the signatory white shirt…
So why was he still B? Why wasn't he L? Why did he come across as a cheap photocopied version of the detective, with black lines etched on all the wrong places?
He grunted. He turned away and vowed never to look at a mirror again. It's only good for lying to yourself, and it rarely works.
Now what?
Whammy's House didn't do a thing for him, so he's leaving everything: his earnestness, his ideals, his identity, and perhaps what was most of his soul.
"Children, B has chosen to leave us," said Roger, as pragmatic as always. "Let us all understand that he did this out of his free will, and we shouldn't blame ourselves for his decision.
"So instead of taking extra time to speculate, I encourage everyone to rethink their reasons to stay here. Some of you may choose to work harder for the title of L's successor, while some will choose to excel in their own lines of work… in any case, children, please act only according to what your conscience allows you to do."
Do not pursue things you will regret, as you may lose your soul when you do.
After the speech, all the children were eating in the mess hall.
"Gee, Mello, now you're number one. That seems easier than you thought."
"I know, Matt. But somehow I'm not so proud of it," said the boy named Mello. He sighed. "Don't you think there's some sort of curse attached to the number one title?"
"Haha, yeah, I see what you're saying. First A, who killed himself over all the pressure, and now B… well, at least he's still alive, right?"
"Yeah. So I wonder what's gonna happen to me."
"You? You'd probably die of diabetes, that's what's gonna happen to you," said Matt with a mouthful of bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwich in his mouth. "I mean, sure L eats more sugar than you, but he does martial arts and he thinks a lot more than you do, which means he burns all the unnecessary sugar…"
"Hey, you bastard, are you saying that I don't like thinking?!"
"That's what I'm saying!"
Linda sighed. She was sitting with the two as they bickered. She poked at her sandwich with disinterest. She pondered on her loss of appetite, and concluded that it was probably because of Matt. The sickening crunch of toast and lettuce against his teeth echoed in her mind, making her imagine bones breaking…
Matt turned to her in curiosity. "Why are you staring at me like that, Linda?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Ah, I just remembered… you're the one who liked B, right?" asked Mello.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"You know. Rumours. Mostly from the upperclassmen who were classmates with him," he said simply.
"I see." She didn't look up at them.
They stared at her uneasily. "So… they were true, huh?" asked Matt with some uncertainty. "What, did you hang out with him or something?"
She poked at her sandwich, which caused it to tumble open-faced on her plate. "Doesn't matter now, does it?" she said before standing up and leaving them.
Children had to help out with cleaning duties because there weren't many adults working in Whammy's House. And at this particular day, Linda, along with two other older boys, was assigned to take out the garbage.
Now, taking out the trash was an arduous thing to do. The journey to the curb was long, because the mansion itself stood in the middle of a huge field. A big, black gate connected to a fence that surrounded the house silently guarded the orphans inside. To carry big bags of garbage outside would take around five minutes of walking and would mean that no-one from inside would see anything happening.
It just so happened that the two boys were cramming their homework at the time. Because Linda didn't feel like arguing, she agreed to do the chore herself, even if it meant taking three trips from the kitchen to the gate.
After she took out the last of the garbage, she sat down on the curb and sighed.
It was a bright day, uncharacteristic of the usual grey autumn sky that served as a backdrop to difficult exams. She wished that she had her sketch pad with her at that moment, because right across the street was an attractive, dark tree, hanging behind the fence of an abandoned schoolhouse. It barely had any leaves on it left. Branches that pointed here and there seemed confused. They appeared black against the white sky.
She stood up and walked towards it. (Crossing the street was no problem, as vehicles very rarely passed by this part of Winchester.) With some difficulty, she squeezed through the small opening of the gate, which was rusted firmly into place.
Now she was next to it. She put one hand on the trunk and took note of its texture—bits of the trunk stuck out like knives hanging from a kitchen wall…
"… that's the kind of thing that Sir would say, isn't it?" she asked herself out loud. Now, there was no particular reason why she did it, but…
"Knives and tree trunks… not bad…"
Linda gasped. She jumped backwards, and met with a pair of panda eyes peeking from the other side of the tree.
"S-sir!" she stammered. She waited for him to come out from behind the tree, just so she could recognize him, before speaking again. "Y-you're here? You haven't run away?"
He didn't answer her question. Instead, he was looking up at the branches of the tree. "And those branches… how do you think I would have distorted them?"
She paused. "W… well… I don't know… tines from a devil's pitchfork, maybe…"
He stared at her. "As expected," was all he said.
"Sir, you've come back?" she asked again. "Does it mean you're going to study in school again?" At this point, even though she tried her best not to, she can't help but smile…
He fell silent. His eyes slowly rolled from one direction to another—first up in the sky, then on the ground, then on the shadows of the gate, and finally, on the space above her head. In all cases, Linda wondered, was he really seeing anything?
After a long silence, he spoke: "Of course not. I just happened to be passing by," he said.
Linda's face fell. "Oh. I see," she said.
Again, that silence. A wind blew past them—it was as if it felt obligated to fill their heads with noise.
Finally, B spoke. "You know, Linda… your real name…" He said this slowly.
Her eyes widened, in that familiar terrified way. B felt like grinning to himself when he saw this. "What do you mean, sir? You know we're not allowed to reveal it to anyone..." she squeaked.
"It's not a problem for me, Linda," he said.
"Oh." She looked at the ground in embarrassment. "Why did you mention it, sir?" she asked.
Beautiful,B thought. In his mind, everything was now tinted red. Various letters floated above her head. They twitched and jumped and writhed out of place every now and then, but now it was all clear to him. "It's a beautiful real name, Linda. I just wanted to say it to you."
"What is?"
He read: "Linda Lester."
Again, her eyes. They were as big as saucers now. B could make out small, red lines that peeked from the corner where her tear ducts were.
"Your initials are identical letters. Just like L's and mine. I think that it's beautiful," he said.
"H-how did you--" she began, taking some steps backwards. It was instinctive, B thought. She probably didn't realize it consciously, this simple-minded girl, but a part of her must have guessed that she was in danger now.
"I am—or rather, I was a detective, Linda," he answered. He rushed towards her and grabbed her face. It was an easy feat to grab her, apparently: even though he was shorter than average, Linda was a small girl. Now, he has a better view of those eyes. Yes, they were now wide with fear and a bit tinged with grey. He saw his own face reflected at the centre. "Now, I'm not so sure what to do with myself."
Her mouth was open, and irregular gasps and puffs of breath were coming out of it. B was sure that all her logic was telling her to scream, but her voice just wouldn't arise…
Scream,she told herself, scream, so that people will hear you! But all she could do was look back at B. Was she only imagining it, or were his eyes glowing red?
After that, her opportunity to scream was gone, for B decided rightly that he had to clutch her throat to make the threat more real. He was surprisingly strong for a guy so scrawny. He easily lifted her off the ground with that one hand of his.
Oh my God, is he going to kill me? Of course he was. She wasn't sure how planned this murder was, but she wouldn't be surprised if he had a knife, a bunch of knives, or even a killing kit with him.
And now that this threat was more real, and now that she can't scream, can't even fight back because she's paralyzed with fear, what else could Linda do?
I'm gonna die, she thought, and the dam behind her tear ducts broke, and now she was crying.
What is this?
In shock, B dropped Linda, who fell on her knees, gasping for breath.
He stared at her, who could do nothing but sob and avoid his gaze. Still tinted red, his vision sharpened. The curious letters still hung over her head, but now they were dancing in a rather mocking way.
Those eyes. They were wide one moment, the centre reduced to small, frightened dots against a dangerous backdrop of grey. Next, they shone all over. It was that first drop, which drew a violent line across her cheek and onto his hand, that surprised him. That was the first time he saw a pair of eyes transition into crying before.
How… interesting…
She was still crying when she asked, "What was that, sir? Why are you like that?"
"You aren't running away," he said.
Linda was still on the ground. She covered her face with her hands, but she didn't make any moves to escape.
"You're probably thinking that if you run, I'll chase you. And escaping would be hard since you'll get stuck at the gate. And that even if you do escape and you report what you see to Roger, and even if everyone believed you, even if L himself helps you, I'd still find a way to do it... to kill you."
No answer, just sobs.
"Because you should know by now, Linda, that I wish to surpass L… right?" asked B. Crouched like L, he peered at her face.
Her eyes weren't visible. Her hands and her hair did a good job of covering it up. And it was because of this that B found it hard to imagine himself bludgeoning those eyes.
Things weren't going as planned.
Moments ago, Linda was surprised that B was practically reading her mind. And she knew that all she could do was to cry her eyes out like this, because it seems that there's no escaping death this time.
L… Mello… Matt… where are you when I need you? She thought.
But ten minutes passed, and nothing happened.
And another ten minutes passed, and it was here that Linda decided to look at the face of her would-be killer.
Except that what she saw was empty space.
Slowly, she looked around. It would seem that she was alone in the abandoned school yard. In fact, it didn't seem like anyone else was there at all.
What happened? Was I dreaming? She thought. She stood up. She discovered how unsteady her legs were.
She found herself waiting, for some reason, even though it was unwise to wait for your killer. But she knew that there was nothing else to do there but leave.
All that was left in that scene was a straw doll. With a sharp shard of wood sticking out of its abdomen, it hung on the branches of the tree, like how a criminal looks after a noose closes in on its throat.
-end-
Author's notes: I just wanted to write something about B, that's all. :D And I also wanted to try writing Linda, because nothing much has been said about her. I'm sorry if it got all weird near the end, since I realized that I took too long in writing this, haha!
As always, comments are welcome :)