I do not own Death Note, it is all property of Tsugumi Obha and Takeshi Obata.
Despite the boring routine he has fallen into, some days still stand out to him.
The incandescence of the television is the only source of light in the room and Light—the room's sole occupant—is not going to change that. In fact, the will to move has abandoned him completely, leaving only a lethargy and an indifference towards the program that is being played. Whilst the television normally would not hold his attention or even strike him as a way to pass time, this is a desperate situation; Light is left with nothing to do and in an attempt to maintain the façade of a normal, yet diligent teenager, Light considers that something worth watching might be playing on TV. Just as he is about to give up, the program comes to an end and the words that are splayed on the screen about the upcoming show grasp his attention—a memorial program for the Hiroshima and Nagasaki attacks.
History is not a topic he would say he enjoys or takes a keen interest in and neither is politics—even in his mind he regards both in a mildly irked manner, the way one might tch at a pimple or a freckle. Politics was too much of a double-edged sword, too corrupted for his liking; there was just too much ambiguity in politics, too much room for opinions and anything in it could either work in or against your favour and thus, Light strayed away from politics as much as he could. There is a sense of safety and comfort in knowing (because you can't take risks when you don't know the rules or the repercussions) and the less he knew, the more uncomfortable he grew.
History is the exact opposite. Cold, hard facts with no puzzle, no challenge and just memorisation. Too boring for him.
The show begins with a prayer and then begins to cover the events of that day and Light thinks he may have found something that occupies his mind for the first time in … eons. It's not all that late—only half past seven but the house is silent, almost eerily so. His father has yet to come home, which Light understands from the way his mother sighs into the mouthpiece of the phone after her attempts to cajole him into coming for dinner have failed. Sayu is at a friend's for a sleepover and his mother—now his companion—is currently frowning beside him elbow planted in the arm rest of the couch and mouth pursed into an annoyed line. As soon as she takes note of what he's watching, however, she grows worried and a concerned titter escapes her mouth after a breath drawn in through clenched teeth at the sight of charred flesh and sobbing men, women and children.
Light can only think of justice, because where is it in this situation? Certainly Japan brought this on themselves but America's revenge took several thousand innocent lives—and was it right that they died for no reason other than being at the wrong place at wrong time? Was it right that people were still paying for a mistake, an act of vengeance committed several years ago?
But he can't voice that.
Because that just sounds bizarre—or even wrong to some—and Light knows the smart thing is to behave the way everyone else would behave, regardless of his thoughts. The justice in this problem matters not to anyone right now; there's only pity and sympathy in the faces of those who ponder about this incident and that's exactly what he should be feeling, and it's not that he doesn't care, but he does think about Americans who lost their lives as well and he thinks about how it could have been avoided or handled better—
He's only going to invite trouble for himself if he voices those thoughts. "Yes, it's a shame," he nods in accordance with his mother, having perfected the art of lying and acting, of slipping into a second skin and delivering lines that he blatantly disagrees with internally or of sharing with others only what they want to hear and cleverly withholding snippets that they would oppose.
—-
It's only two weeks into his second term when he learns of Fujisaki Keiichi's death.
He didn't even know the boy; apparently he was a first year student, a happy child who lost his life to a gruesome car crash—such a terrible way for someone so young to die, remarks one of the teacher—but it's better than him dying of cancer or some other illness, isn't it? Light thinks to himself. As expected, there's a memorial held where more members of the staff give tear-choked speeches about how much they would miss Fujisaki-kun whilst students whisper amongst themselves, a majority of them unconcerned that they have lost a schoolmate—of course, there are some murmurs of condolences, some passing expressions of sympathy, but Light wonders how many of them are honest. Only Fujisaki's friends, gathered in a small makeshift circle in a corner at the front of the auditorium seem to show evidence of grief; it's not in just the way they shed tears, Light can see markers of depression in their eyes—the way there are fine, nearly invisible lines settling around their bloodshot eyes or the hollowness present in their faces and their voices.
It was a hit-and-run, a teacher mentions, and that makes it all the more worse because Fujisaki-san's death was at the hands of some nameless, faceless fellow who was devoid of the decency to admit to his errors. As the students slowly begin to file out, their shoes clapping against the wood of the auditorium floor, their chatter echoing around him, Light's mind focuses on how unfair the world can be.
A teenage boy dies as a result of an adult's folly and negligence. Countries battle with each other over petty issues. Dozens of lives are taken every day because people can't settle their differences or their problems without the aid or violence. Light Yagami has no purpose, no room for choice, no desire, no need to live in a world that sickens him so much.
It's only a year later that there's evidence of Fujisaki's assailant's identity and yet there isn't enough of it to confirm it.
Light Yagami grows even more tired.
It's not just how tiresome the world is that bothers him now, but also how there is no escape, no break, no release from it as well. Everything has been plotted out for him; he will graduate at the top of his class, he will be accepted into To-Oh, he will follow in his father's footsteps and become a detective and as the world continues to rot around him, he will stand upright and face it and scoff at the very idea of giving up or running away—no matter how much he hates the world he has been incarcerated in.
So jaded.
—-
The day he learns of the notebook's true abilities, he makes a decision.
He decides to kill the driver who claimed Fujisaki's life. There is regret in him for the lives he cannot cut short because they're already dead—those people who bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, those people who probably passed away with sweet age and grandchildren, but there is a morbid, grandiose sort of joy in him for that which he can still rectify. There it is, justice, right there in his hands, a ballpoint pen and a seemingly innocent black notebook—it's as if the weight of justice always belonged in his hands. As if he was meant to do this, because there was no one else who could handle a task of this importance, this magnitude.
There's no one else who cares enough.
He reminds himself that right and wrong are relative and even if murder is wrong, it's all for a noble cause—he's doing the world a favour and he keeps that in mind as he lifts his pen and wills away lives with every casual stroke he draws on the ruled sheets.
All for a noble cause.
Reviews and concrit are more than welcome! I sincerely hope I've characterised Light well~. I've also taken a funny liking to writing for this fandom; I'm actually toying with two more ideas for fanfics for this fandom xD ...