Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note nor any of the characters contained therein.
Summary: Every adult was a child once; every experience shapes what that child will become. L's PoV, pre-Wammy. Rated T for violence.
The Pull
You remember the day well, that day when you first felt it. Dappled sunlight on green grass, cool and springy in the grip of your toes, late summer sun baking the back of your head. You watched, crouched there behind the flower beds, straining your ears to hear, puzzling meaning from distant shouts and conversations, aching for understanding. You felt the pull at the center of your being, drawing you toward what you did not yet know would be your destination, your future, your home. The shock of the bell made you jump, and as sharp eyes turned your way, you ran, the sonorous sound chasing you across the lawn, under the fence, and down the street, staying with you even after you'd run up the steps, closed the door, and hidden in the darkness of your room. Always the bell. Discordant, final, its resonance remains with you still, calling to you through the years. There is no unringing it.
Two months before, it had rained. Though you did not mind the mud, your mother asked you to stay inside and help her. The scent of woodpolish became so strong as you wound the rag around the spires of the dining chairs that you almost didn't notice the cake she was baking. You dashed into the kitchen in time to see her removing the layers. She laughed, seeing you gazing up at her expectantly.
"Not until after you've finished all of the chairs and the table, young man."
She was barely finished speaking when you ran back into the dining room to complete your task. You brought more enthusiasm to the chore, determined to finish quickly but not to miss any spots that might keep you from the confection. The sound of beaters whirring, whipping through cream and sugar, spurred you on, providing a soundtrack to the rapid motion of your cloth.
"Mon chere!" Your father's voice boomed from the foyer, bracketed by the noise of the front door. Open, close. Ordinarily, you would have snuck up on him, leapt at him in a greeting which he somehow managed to seem surprised by each time, but nothing could sway you from your task, your mouth already watering in anticipation of the cake. You knew that he was calling to your mother anyway, so you paid him little mind – you could surprise him later.
You heard your father prop his umbrella in the corner before the soft clop of his shoes echoed as they dropped. The sound of the beaters stopped, and you looked up to see your mother hasten by, wiping her hands on her apron, faint stains on it a collage of meals past, slyly smiling as she went to greet him.
Their distant and muffled giggles meant only that they were happy. You already knew that. You had complete focus on your goal. There would be time enough for hugs and hellos, after the polishing, after the cake. You raced the clock as though there was a finish line, leaning forward, ready to taste victory. The knocking that came at the door was irrelevant, as was the barely heard conversation that followed the unlatching of the door.
It was the gunshot that caught your attention, stopped your hand, and raised your eyes. A strange crashing and thrashing came next, accompanied by an anguished shout, and you were moving without knowing it, running into the kitchen, crouching under the counter, peering through the crack in the slats into the dining room you'd just left. Your nerveless fingers still clutched the rag as you saw your mother step into view, a red splash arcing across her chest, rendering all other stains moot.
She swung her head back and forth, entering hesitantly, eyes wide, and you nearly called out to her when it happened again. Gunshot. Not just a sound now as the splash seemed to come alive, spreading, flying. You watched as your mother fell, to her knees first, then onto her side. The red splash was leaking everywhere, reaching out as if to find you. You stayed still, unaware that you were shaking, eyes seeing without seeing.
Footfalls brought your eyes back up. A man and a woman stood, just in from the hall, looking down at your mother. You'd never seen them before, and you stared attentively at their faces as they scanned the room. They were your parents' age, unremarkable, European, brown hair, brown eyes – no, the woman's eyes were hazel. More than rainwater speckled their raincoats, and they each held a gun in their gloved hands. You were expecting them to move toward you when they spoke in a language you did not yet know, the man's adam's apple bobbing. The woman nodded, turning away. The man followed her, and you heard their footsteps taking them to the back door. Open, close. Your eyes were drawn back to your mother. She blinked.
Quickly, you crept to your mother's side, her widening eyes fluttering up to meet yours. "No, Licker!" Her whisper was sharp.
"They're gone, Mama." You stroked her hair. "How do I fix you?"
Her eyes brimmed as she reached for you, grasping your ankle where you crouched and then stretching to caress your face. "Stay safe. That's the only way any of this will be fixed. Hide and stay safe."
Her breathing hitched and she dropped her hand, grimace fleeting on her face. You did not want to stop stroking her hair. She had stayed with you, stroking your hair until you fell asleep when you had the chicken pox and then the measles. You wanted to believe it would help her heal. You said to her what she had said to you: "Everything's going to be OK."
Her breathing seemed to go funny, and she shook just slightly. "You're my good boy," she said, her voice a strained half-gurgle as she dragged her arm to reach your ankle again. "I love you."
"I love you too, Mama." Even as the words left your mouth, you saw her eyes change – glazed over, then empty as an open door. The splash had reached her lips too, red red red and dripping. You kept stroking her hair, knowing better but hoping anyway, until her hand went cold. You knew she couldn't feel it anymore. Gently, you unhooked her fingers from your ankle and stood slowly.
Careful to avoid the spreading splash that was now a puddle, you walked to the hallway and peeked around into the foyer. The front door was still open, the rain a harsh whisper beyond. On the floor, you saw that your father had not escaped the splash. His eyes stared at the ceiling, and you knew he wasn't there anymore either.
You could not place the stillness within you – it was both a weight and an absence. Your legs moved of their own volition, carrying you past your mother and into the kitchen. Cooling cake layers, untouched by any splash, lay waiting, the bowl of frosting standing mute next to the colander of freshly washed strawberries. You remembered your unspoken promise and walked back into the dining room. The rag was on the floor, where you'd dropped it next to the long sweep of your mother's dark hair. You bent to pick it up, pausing only to kiss her cool forehead. Then you polished. You polished the rest of the chairs and the table as though nothing else existed or would ever matter. You kept your word.
They found you in the kitchen, after nightfall. The police had been there for nearly 30 minutes when one of them thought to look under the kitchen counter to see you staring out, eyes wide, hair wild, fingers sticky with frosting as you clutched the empty bowl, crumbs still dusting your shirt. They asked you if you saw anything, and you remembered your mother's words: "Hide and stay safe." You shook your head. They asked you if you saw who hurt your parents. Another shake. They asked you if you heard anything, and you stared for so long that they thought you weren't going to answer.
"Two bangs."
Their heads snapped around. "You heard two bang noises?"
"Are you sure?"
You nodded, understanding that their expectations of you would be low, as though you were any seven-year-old, not one who could solve complicated equations and recite the principles of physics, including Einstein's theory of relativity, for example, in four different languages if you wished. It was easier to let people see what they expected, what they wanted. They wanted to know more, and then they wanted to know if you had anyone else you could stay with.
"Gramma."
It took some time for them to realize that three words were the most they would be getting from you, but once they did, they sent you along, passing you like a parcel, shielding you from the sight of the splash, leading you around the back and into a squad car that took you to your grandmother's house. If she hadn't been sick that day, you would have been there that afternoon, as always, to read, to play, to learn. Sometimes Gramma seemed angry for no reason, but you liked her. She made jokes you weren't supposed to get and then winked at you to say she knew you got them anyway. She told embarrassing stories about Mama. You were more fluent in Japanese because of her, and though you pretended not to like it, you were secretly pleased when she called you her Little Dragon.
Her face when she opened the door that night changed right in front of you. She had never really looked old until then. Her face reflected the rain as the policemen spoke to her, but she was quiet and still. When you snuck your hand into hers, the rain became a part of her, falling from her as her head tipped down just slightly, her eyes staring through the man who was saying "I'm sorry." You wanted her to see you, as if that might make you feel real again, but you willed yourself to wait.
The funeral was later that week. The day had no right to be so gorgeous, sunlight limning every leaf in gold. You remembered the time, almost a year before, when you had gone into the clock tower with your father – you'd wanted to see it up close, and the minister had allowed you and he to enter and watch as the bell chimed at the top of the hour. Your father had laughed as you'd clapped your hands over your ears, shocked by the sheer size of the sound, rolling through you, forcing you to vibrate at the same pitch like a tuning fork in short pants.
Everything in the church was so big, so ornate, that you could stare for hours and never get enough information. The stained glass windows, the cloth-draped pulpit, the arched doors to the vestibule, the chandelier – every Sunday you'd attended church, you'd found yourself examining every detail. You liked details. "God is in the details," the minister had said once, and it was as if he was telling you that if you saw them all, took them in and absorbed them completely, you would see God.
The details were important to you as you entered the church with your grandmother. Twin coffins bookending the pulpit, humble pine in a nave of mahogany. A tongue of rich red carpet extending the length of the aisle out toward the mouth of the church. The faces of everyone as they entered, milling about, saddened or indifferent, brows furrowing, heads nodding as if parsing out code. People sitting together in clumps at the front, sparse and scattered at the back. People arriving early. People arriving late. Timing would be just as important a detail as anything else.
You were always good at climbing and hiding, able to stay quiet for much longer than most children. No one saw you slip away just before the service. No one saw you change the knot of a thick golden rope or loosen an already loose bolt. No one saw you tie a length of fishing line, invisible against the shiny floor, to a wall-mounted doorstop. People only saw the sad boy with tousled black hair who didn't want to talk, and they could not blame you for that.
When you saw them enter the church, you felt a strange sort of glee. To know that you had guessed right was a bittersweet triumph. Peering over the back of the pew, you could hardly sit still as the minister droned on, saying the things that people seemed to think they had to say, things like "loving parents" and "died before their time" and "in a better place now." You knew that you were supposed to sit and listen, but sitting and listening was for everyone's benefit but yours. The minister couldn't tell you anything new, and he couldn't bring your parents back – no one could. There were still promises you had to keep.
You weren't sure if Gramma even heard you through her tears when you whispered "Save my seat – I have to go." Then you dashed down the aisle, pity beaming at you from every face, even theirs. You knew that they would slink out early, you knew, though they had not yet moved. Rounding the nave entrance, pale hand on the doorframe, you sprinted across a slick floor and launched yourself at your hiding spot behind the folding chairs in the adjoining room, watching through the door, across the narthex, waiting. And then the soft footsteps, their shadows falling across the threshold before them. You pulled your line tight, wound as it was around a support beam, holding on with everything you had. The bell rang out – top of the hour already.
You watched them tumble forward, their mouths and eyes forming circles. You watched the man grab for the closest support, just as you knew he would. You watched the altered knot on the loosened brass cleat fail in his grip as gravity carried him forward. You watched the woman's chin hit the shiny floor, her hazel eyes rolling up, white, to mimic it. You watched the cord that held the chandelier at its height slip and whip upward. You watched as the many-armed mass of metal and crystal came plummeting down. You heard the bell, still ringing. You heard the crash and squelch and squeal as metal met flesh and stone, and the tinkling of crystals breaking on marble, scattering. You saw the splash reborn.
Snipping the line, you darted to the window of the musty side-room, unseen by the adults, climbing over its sill, outside in the open air at last. You ran over and stood under the oak tree as though you had always been there, toeing the ground, watching the squirrels scamper and bicker. Shouts of surprise and dismay reached your ears over the last lingering rings of the bell, and you turned to face the church, sunlight warming your shoulders. People began spilling out of the church onto the lawn, some of them stumbling, many of them crossing themselves. A woman vomited into a shrub. No one noticed you. You preferred it when no one noticed you.
At last, your grandmother emerged, clutching her handkerchief close to her chest as she scanned the grounds. You couldn't bear the fear etched on her face.
"Gramma?"
She spun at the sound of your voice and began moving resolutely toward you, her steps halting and labored on the grass. Not wanting her to have to walk the whole way to meet you, you ran to her.
"What's wrong?" You knew it was the right thing to ask, though you did not need an answer.
She embraced you, shaking. "Thank God – my Little Dragon . . ."
The scent of lavender on her was soothing, but it could not fill the hole inside you – the weight and the absence were still there, feeling bigger than they had before. You didn't understand why it was getting worse, but one thing was important. "We are safe now, Gramma."
You said it into the folds of her dress, not sure she'd heard you, and then felt her jump. She pulled back slowly to look into your eyes. "What do you mean, Liam?" She used the name your mother wanted for you, one of many names on which you had not yet decided.
Swallowing, you looked up at her, eyes wide. "They cannot hurt us now. Mama said to stay safe, and now we are."
You had never seen such a dark expression as the one that came over your grandmother's face as she bent closer to you. "Tell no one of this." Her whisper could nearly have been mistaken for a growl, and you nodded vigorously. Taking her hand, you wondered, if you were safe, why you did not feel so.
The police took their time making the rounds, talking to everyone in the churchyard, but they only asked you one question: "Did you see anything?" You shook your head and buried your face in your grandmother's side. Perhaps they remembered your taciturn nature, or decided not to press an already traumatized boy for more information. They nodded solemnly and moved along, from one clump of people to the next, speaking, nodding, writing. In time, you were sure that they would find the connection, prove what the couple squashed in the marble-floored narthex had done to your parents, and everyone would know, everyone would understand. Whatever else happened, though, you knew that the people who had murdered your parents were dead now and couldn't murder anyone else.
Days went by. You were fed and cared for, but you noticed that Gramma wouldn't look you in the eye anymore. You accepted it as a penance. There were books to read and chores to do and things to examine in the yard. As long as you could focus on doing and thinking, it was OK – you could ignore the weight, you could ignore the absence. And there was always more to learn.
One morning, your grandmother asked you to wear the same outfit you'd worn to your parents' funeral. You didn't complain, though you hated those clothes, and you didn't ask why, though you wondered. The dark slacks and button-down shirt still smelled of chemicals from when Gramma had cleaned them, and they were stiff, as if they wanted nothing to do with you, either. The shoes, dark and shiny, were the worst, but at least the soles were soft, your steps quiet on the stairs as you made your way down. The bigger surprise, as you glanced out the window, was the taxicab pulling into the driveway.
When you got to the strange church, several towns away, you wanted to ask why you were there, but Gramma's face was stony, so you busied yourself by looking, drinking in the details. The interior was similar to your church, making the differences between them somehow more distracting – the fleur-de-lis on the end of the pews seemed out of place, the wood was darker, the rug along the aisle was red and blue with gold cross-hatches, the ceiling was higher, the nave was narrower, the air smelled funny.
As you felt yourself being guided toward a pew, you looked up. Twin coffins flanked the pulpit. You felt your legs lock as you stared. Your grandmother's grip on your arm tightened, and you understood. Before you slid into the pew to take your seat, before the strange minister with white hair began speaking, before the sobs of a boy echoed through the church, you understood. This was the truth. What they had taken from you, you had taken from this boy. You wanted to believe he was safer now too, but didn't dare speak of this. Your penance was only just beginning. You kept quiet all through the service and all the way home. You wondered if you could keep quiet forever.
"Look at me." Gramma's voice was firm, and it sounded closer than it already was in her small sitting room. You tipped your head up, your large dark eyes meeting hers. She did not evade your gaze, she did not flinch away. She looked deep into you, her stern expression hurting more than any rebuke. After a few moments, she nodded once. "Now you know."
The trembling seemed to start in your chest and move outwards. You searched her eyes for warmth but found none. Your hands gripped at nothing, arms straight against your sides as if pinned there, and you felt your larynx betray you. "But Gramma, they were –"
"No." She stopped your voice with one soft word. "Killing does not balance things, and it does not ease the pain of loss. It only spreads the pain – to others, and within yourself."
You broke eye contact to stare down at your shaking hands, the red marks on them from the tripwire still fading. You hated the sound of your breath, rushing in and out or you, wishing you could make it stop, just make everything stop. "If I die, will that end it? Will that make it better?" Your voice wavered, tremulous, and you did not notice your grandmother moving until her hands held your face, lifting it.
"That will make it worse. Do you think no one loves you?" Her eyes were welling, and the warmth you'd sought there before suffused them, washing over you.
You felt the weight inside you shift – it tore free and left you ragged, sobbing in your Gramma's arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . ."
The two of you clutched each other, shaking, the Queen Anne chair and the silver tea set bearing silent witness to your grief in the small dark room. "You have a debt now, Little Dragon," she murmured, stroking your hair. "You will have to find a way to repay it."
You felt yourself nodding, unable to speak. You knew that she didn't just mean to the boy at the church – she meant a debt to the world. The weight was gone now, but the absence had remained, and you did not know if you would ever feel whole again.
"What would you like to eat?" Your grandmother pulled back to look into your eyes again. "I'll make you whatever you like."
"Strawberry cream cake." The words left your mouth in a croak before you'd even thought about them.
Gramma looked at you sadly. "It won't be as good as your mother's were."
You wiped your eyes with a stiff sleeve. "If it's half as good, it will still be the best in the world."
She smiled at you for the first time since they died. She took you by the hand to the kitchen and let you help her mix, humming the old songs she'd once hummed to your mother, the sounds of spoons and whisks on bowls providing percussion.
There were things you did not know, things that would reveal themselves in time. You did not know that you would see the boy from the church being led through the gates of the large mansion blocks away from your grandmother's house, nor that you would spy on him there, crouched in a flowerbed, feeling a strange pull within you. You did not know that you would only have seven months more with your grandmother before she passed away, a stroke stilling the sharp mind that had kept you thinking, learning. You did not know that you would pass through those gates, the gates of an orphanage, its bell sounding out above you once more, clutching the hand of a man who would become quite important to you, to reside under the same roof as the boy who never seemed to stop crying. You did not know what you would learn there, what you would become.
What you did know, in the kitchen that afternoon, flecks of batter in your hair, was that someone you loved loved you, and that if God was in any detail, it was that one.
Author's Note: The very first time I read anything written in second-person it was a short story by Carlos Fuentes (the title of which escapes me, it pains me to say). I thought it was an interesting way to tell a story, but I haven't played too much with writing in second-person, so I thought I'd use it for this. There's an awkward intimacy to it that I find interesting. One thing that makes it awkward is that it begs the question "Who is narrating? Is L essentially speaking to his past self? Is Watari relating this to L?" It's a question for which I don't have an answer, though I feel that L even at age seven would have a more sophisticated manner of thought than is reflected here, so perhaps it is someone else narrating.
To me, L always seemed haunted by a traumatic loss of some kind in canon, though it was never named. Witnessing the deaths of his parents is a pretty obvious leap for me to make, I suppose, but I felt it fit his behavior later. If not for experiencing loss at an early age, and gaining some perspective regarding consequences, L might have turned out more like Light. For the record, I don't see the adult L as being especially religious (if at all), but he was inevitably exposed to some manner of religion.
A narthex is a lobby-like area inside a church just preceding the main room with all the pews, which is called the nave. It's such a weird word that I almost didn't use it, but then I remembered that I like weird words. ^_^
This could be considered background to my longer fic, Turn of the 8th Day, if for no other reason than it does not contradict it.