A World for Fools
Part One: Kira Lives
Immediately after the monsters die the heroes.
-Robert Calasso
The warehouse seems so cold, the creaking of the giant fan infiltrating every open space, the heavy breathing of the others, listening. And the fear. It penetrates everything. The hammering of his heart is so loud he's afraid that they'll hear it, and then they'll know how afraid he is and they'll call him a coward. Or think so at least. If they don't already. After all, he's on his knees now, just sitting there being useless. Just his luck to drop into a puddle. His slacks are soaked. They're ignoring him anyway. Listening to the exchange between Near and Light.
Then there's a gunshot. For a second he can't even believe that he's the one who fired that perfect shot. It's unreal. He's always been good with his weapon, but he's never had to use it before. Not like this.
Aizawa whispers his name. They didn't expect him to shoot. Hell, he didn't expect to shoot—it all happened so quickly, it was more of an instinct than anything. No. That's not even the right word. What he did was retaliation. They're all stunned, but for him the shock passes quickly, and he's trying so hard to hold back the tears, trying in vain to soothe the alien rage that has suddenly come over him.
"who do you think you're shooting at? Don't screw with me!"
It's a threat but he doesn't care. He's past caring. The pain is just so deep, like a trench that can't be filled. This feeling… He knows it as betrayal. "What was it all for then?" He chokes the words out, "What about your dad? What the hell did he die for?"
It's all a flash. Light's answer seems so far away. But he gets the gist of it.
'…They always lose…you want to live in a world where people like him are made of fools?… shoot them.'
He does want to fire again. His trigger finger is itching from outrage, but he wouldn't dream of hurting any of his comrades.
"You led your own father to his death, and now he's gone—you call him a fool?"
Everything happens so quickly. There are four more shots. He realizes that he's the one firing them. He watches Light flop motionlessly on the ground, moves in for the kill, the rage squirming up out of his stomach, making its way toward his mouth, like vomit. It's taken over, and just yesterday he didn't even know it existed.
"I'll kill him. I'll kill him! He has to die!"
He aims at Light's head. He looks into the panicked, brown eyes. He pulls the trigger.
I never realized that happened in real life. I've seen it in movies a lot, where the guy's dreaming and then there's a gunshot, and he suddenly wakes up, knowing for the first time that it's a dream. But it's real. It happens. It happens to me a lot.
I sat up in bed, breathing hard and battling back the tears that were in the dream. I can still remember how they felt, running down my face. I remember how Light flew back and his blood splattered everywhere, how my friends dragged me away before I could kill him. I'm glad they did that. The last thing I needed was to murder him in cold blood—then I'd just feel worse.
Shivering, I stared down at my hands. In the dark it's hard to make out much about them, but they felt greasy and dirty, like they needed to be washed. I ventured a look at the clock. Four-thirty in the morning.
But I wasn't surprised. I hadn't been sleeping well for the last month anyway.
With a moan, I swung myself off the bed and stumbled toward the bathroom, banging my knee on my own nightstand as I went. I yelped and lurched forward, tripping over my own shoe and collapsing against the wall. For a few moments I just leaned there, catching my breath and holding it in. It's pathetic how clumsy I am. If someone were there with me they'd think I was drunk, but the truth is I'm always doing that. More often than people realize. More often than I'd like.
Cautiously, I stepped forward, flipping on the light and groping for the sink. I looked at my hands again as I ran them under hot water: they were clean of course-I'd just taken a shower before going to bed-but for some reason I just couldn't get over the feeling that they were drenched in blood. I felt like I could see the crimson running down the sink with the water. I squeezed out some soap from the pump bottle and scrubbed my hands hard, kept them under the water until I thought they'd burn. Then I dried them off fiercely on the towel and leaned against the counter, hanging my head and sighing, heavy, dark hair falling around my face. I needed a haircut, and like a lot of other things, I didn't really care.
"Light…the gunshots…they're still in my head."
My gaze flickered up and I studied myself in the mirror. An average guy, with a not-so-average life. Young. Other guys my age were out hunting girls and getting laid. Or in college. They weren't having nightmares because they had shot and tried to kill someone they cared about.
Pushing back the hair from my eyes, I kept staring. Not for the first time, I noticed the dark circles that were starting to get more and more noticeable under my eyes, but in spite of that, I guess I wasn't too bad to look at. I could get a girlfriend if I tried. I told myself that anyway. Following that line of thought, I inspected my bare torso-other guys my age probably sleep naked, but just the thought of that made me blush-my build isn't bad. I could bench two hundred pounds.
Maybe not that much. Maybe a little less. It had been a while since I'd been to the gym. With the Kira case finally over maybe I could get back to having a normal life: the gym a few times a week, a bar or a club on my days off…
Kira…
I didn't want to believe it. The whole time we'd hunted Kira I'd always wanted to believe Light was innocent, no matter what the evidence said. As it had turned out, he was Kira, and I was just being stupid again. Just trusting too much.
Suddenly sick to my stomach, I knelt by the toilet and threw up what little I'd eaten that day. I rinsed my mouth and shut off the light, found my way back to bed, afraid to lay down. I knew the dream would come back.
It always did. That last gunshot always woke me up. Why? In real life it hadn't hit anything, the others had pulled me back and taken my gun, so I'd missed. But in the dream…
Don't think about it. That's what Mogi had said to do. I'd tried forgetting it—I didn't want to remember. But how could I forget it? How could I just pretend none of it had happened?
Sighing again, I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow, trying to sleep, even when I didn't want to.
This time when the gun went off it was even more startling and I actually jumped. I sat up straight, rubbing my face and trying to get a grip. What the hell was wrong with me?
I glanced around my bedroom. It was sort of on the small size. Just a modest, Japanese apartment. Perfect for a bachelor. There was a bright, sort of unreal light coming through the windows, slipping through the blinds. Morning already. The clock said one-ten, but that couldn't be right. There was no way I'd slept in. What about my alarm?
A few seconds later, I heard a loud knock on my front door. Was that what had woken me up? Must have been. It was pretty demanding from the sound of it—my landlord probably. I hadn't paid rent on time so he was getting antsy.
Holding my breath, I stayed where I was. If it was the landlord he'd probably go away after a while, if he thought I wasn't home. In the meantime I contemplated how I'd managed to sleep through my alarm. It was Tuesday, and I was supposed to be at work at seven this morning. Why hadn't someone called me?
The knock sounded again, this time accompanied by a loud voice, "Matsuda! I know you're in there—open this damn door!"
Aizawa? What the hell? What was he doing at my apartment? Why didn't someone just call me? And of all the people to come get me why him?
He screamed again, threatening to break the door down-he'd always wanted to do that-and he sounded pretty upset, so I rushed out to the front door, not really caring how I looked, and unlocked it. He opened it himself, almost knocking me over as he charged in, dark eyes on fire with ferocity.
I stepped back,
stuttering, "Ai-Aizawa…what are you doing here? I-"
"Me?"
He jabbed a finger at me, "Matsuda, what are you doing here?
You were supposed to be at the station six hours ago."
"I know." I tried to find something to look at other than him, feeling my cheeks getting sort of hot. "I guess I slept through my alarm. Sorry. Why didn't somebody call me?"
"We tried." Aizawa snorted. His voice was softer now, but the agitation wasn't totally gone. "You didn't pick up, home or cell."
"My home phone is sort of…" I scratched my head, working my fingers through my tangled, knotted hair, "out of order right now."
He raised an eyebrow at me, "What happen? You break it?"
"It got shut off." I admitted. "I've been busy and I didn't get the bill in…"
Aizawa sort of shook his head, "Well, anyway, we were worried about you, so I came over to see if you're okay."
"Oh, yeah, I'm fine." I forced a smile, but even he knew it was fake. "Just…over slept."
"By six hours."
I shrugged. "I was tired."
"Kid," his face took on a more concerned expression, "are you all right?"
Kid. Since when did he call me that? Sure I was probably a good ten years younger than Aizawa, but I wasn't a kid. It made my face feel hot again, but I tried to ignore it, downplaying his concern. "What? Yeah, of course. What are you talking about? I'm great."
The word great was probably a bad choice. It just sort of turned over and died on my tongue, sounding absolutely hollow, and his worried expression didn't go away like I wanted it to.
Aizawa tried to put a hand on my shoulder. "You know, this whole thing with Light has been pretty hard on all of us, so if you need more vacation time, I'm sure that-"
"No." I flinched away, nearly backing into the wall, "I mean, no…I just…I'm fine. Really. Two weeks off was fine."
"It's not very much, you know." He sounded a little gruff.
"It's enough." I turned away, not wanting to continue the conversation at all. "I'll go get dressed, I guess. See ya' at the station, Aizawa."
"I could stick around and give you a ride."
"Oh, no thanks. I'll drive over."
The irritation came back in full, "What are you talking about, you idiot? I'm here now, my car is right outside—what's the point of us both driving over there?"
I stopped but didn't look at him. Instead I bent my head to studied my hands.
Matsuda, you idiot! Who the hell do you think you're shooting at?
"It's not going to take you long to get ready anyway, is it? I'll wait."
"You don't have to."
"I'm going to. Hey," his footsteps told me he was getting closer, "you sure you're okay? You're acting kinda' weird."
The anger came out of nowhere, and I turned around and snapped at him, "I already told you I'm fine, Aizawa! How many different languages do I have to say it in?"
From the expression on his face I could see he was almost as startled as I was that I'd lost my temper with him. That never happened. What the hell was wrong with me?
"Sorry." I murmured immediately.
"Matsuda," he sighed, "maybe you should just stay home today. It's so late there's not really any point in you wasting your time. You know we're just pushing papers for a while."
"No. I should come over anyway."
"It's not like you're going to lose your job. They'll understand."
"What's to understand?" I paused by my linen closet to grab a towel, but it was empty. Behind on laundry. In fact, as I glanced around my apartment, I was suddenly overly aware that I was behind on just about everything. Unpaid bills were scattered on my poor excuse for a coffee table, dirty dishes cluttered the counters and flies buzzed around the sink, several cupboards were open, revealing that I had almost no clean cups or plates, and a good deal of my dirty laundry was puddle on the floor. It hadn't occurred to me before, but now that I realized what a dump my place was, I also realized there was no way Aizawa could miss it.
I looked at him, more embarrassed than ever, and he just watched me. What should I do now? I was out of towels so how could I take a shower? And I doubted my uniform for work was clean either. Breakfast was probably out of the question—if I didn't have clean dishes why would I have food in my fridge? How had this happened? Why hadn't I even realized my apartment was such a mess?
"Matsu?" He sounded like he was calling me back to reality.
I shook the thoughts away and kept walking, heading for the bathroom, "Thanks for the ride." I said it, forcing myself to sound normal, "I guess if you really want to stick around, I'd appreciate it."
"Want to?" He snorted. "Yeah, yeah, just hurry it up."
"Make yourself at home." I added, just because it was the right thing to say. He would have to clear a mound of garbage and magazines just to sit on my couch.
"I'll give it a shot."
I shut the bathroom door behind me and went to the sink. My hands felt so dirty, like I'd dipped them in some slimy pond, and I had to wash them. When I was done with that, I stripped off my shorts and got in the shower, taking another deep breath as the water came on. It was too cold, but I didn't care.
Just a little while later, I was sitting in Aizawa's car, watching the scenery go by but not really caring about it. Aizawa muttered a lot and even shouted a few obscenities. Sometimes when we stopped at a light I'd catch him looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
Self-conscious, I looked down at my rumpled suit. It had a coffee stain, which I'd managed to hide under my tie and it really needed to be ironed. My hair was still wet since I hadn't had a towel to dry it with, and my stomach was roaring. All I'd found to eat at my apartment was a half-squashed banana. There was no time to cook the two eggs I had left, and someone had drank what was left of the orange juice then put the empty carton back in the fridge. Me, I assumed, even though I didn't remember doing it.
"You didn't eat." Aizawa said after a few minutes.
"There wasn't any time."
"It looks like there wasn't any food, Matsuda."
"Yeah, well…I haven't been to the store in a while, I guess." I leaned against my fist and closed my eyes.
"I guess. Your maid go on vacation too?"
I was quiet. I never should have let him in. I should have ignored him, rolled over, and gone back to sleep.
"Well?"
"Huh?" I looked at him, "What do you want me to say?"
"Why don't you explain what's going on with you?"
"I don't-"
"Look." He whipped suddenly out of the traffic and we were sitting outside a small café.
"What are we doing here?" I adjusted my tie. It felt too tight for some reason.
"Look, you," he turned in the seat to face me, "Light Yagami died a whole month ago, but that's really not very much; if you're depressed you should just say so."
"Depressed…" Was I depressed? I guess it was possible, but I hadn't really considered it to be a possibility.
"Sleeping late, missing work, letting your apartment go to pot…" he shook his head and lowered his voice, "You're not yourself, Matsu… we've all noticed."
"But I-"
"You shot him. You shot him full of holes. You tried to kill him—he was your friend, you cared about him, and you thought he cared about you-about us-we were betrayed. It's not like we don't understand. It's not every day you shoot somebody, and even as a cop, and it's even less often that you gun down a friend."
I felt the backfire of the gun and heard the familiar boom again, closed my eyes for a second and saw the splash of red, like a painting on a black canvas. My hands itched.
Aizawa touched my shoulder, "You need to pull yourself together, kid. It isn't your fault Light's dead—Ryuuk said he was going to write Light's name in the notebook."
"Even if he hadn't, Light would be dead now anyway, and that's because of me. If Ryuuk hadn't written his name down he would have bled to death. I tried to kill him…I wanted to kill him, Aizawa."
"He deserved to die. He killed thousands of people—criminals or not, it wasn't okay."
"You're right. It's not okay to murder criminals."
"I think it's fair to say that Kira was more than just a criminal. He was…a monster. Think about how long he lied to us about it, Matsuda. That whole time it was really him…pretending."
"I don't want to think about it."
"But you obviously are thinking about it, otherwise why would your apartment look like the city dump?"
"Can we just not talk about it, please?"
Aizawa sighed and said no more—he obviously didn't like to have his best efforts rebuffed.
We went in the café after a few minutes, which was his idea, and had a short lunch before going on to the police station. Aizawa didn't say much else for the rest of the ride, and I didn't have anything to say either. I was a little surprised to learn that my friends were worried about me, but I wasn't sure why that was. After all, they thought I was an idiot, but they were still my friends.
I didn't like to have them worry about me.
