I had experienced my fair share of disorienting situations. Without elaborating too far, one could imagine that anyone who spent their young life in the company of older Englishmen only to change identity overnight at fifteen would be aware of this. However, as a word to anyone planning on going through this process as well- which means all of you- it is extremely disorienting to, in an instant, have one's supreme looming realization shift from "one day, I will be gone" to "I once was."
I've been drifting for a few months now. To say that I am fully comprehending the magnitude of my own death would be untrue, not that I'd admit it. I am not completely in tune with what is happening now. A fish can be subjected to extreme noise and sense only vibration, as opposed to pain on the part of those with fully formed ears. I believe that this same principle can be applied to my current degree of consciousness in relation to the world, for lack of a better or more convincing explanation.
Memories are a bit fragmented, or else dreamlike, but for a few crystallised images. The bulk of them are faces of people I knew, places; the standard content for a photo album. Several taskforce members are there- Yagami-san most prominent. There is only one that bothers me. In a way I like this, and I will go back to it quite a bit for a bit of variety from this stretch of contemplation. Being annoyed or confused is nice every now and again. My mind's eye blinked right before I died, after my chest had imploded and my temples had filled with ice. Naturally this was inconvenient, but left me with one still picture. The perspective is looking down upon a scene that is now all too familiar, the subject of which in the centre.
Light Yagami's eyes held a shard of regret. My grip was loosening by this point, after which he then grinned and switched to screaming in one swift motion. This is considerably fuzzier than the top-down view. Still, it is worth noting. He was yelling loudly, but my hearing had gone. He slipped his hands underneath my ribcage and lifted me a bit off the floor; and that was that.
I am not an artist by nature. I do not know how to accurately analyze things in accordance to certain aesthetic rules- the shape, the shadow, the subject, the substance. Still, I am here, left with only the contents of my head, which continue to dim, so this image is what I am saving. In a way I am proud of it. Others might have an image of a gun barrel, bloodstains, concerned faces, or nothing at all. How lucky I am to have my very own unsung, albeit ersatz Pietà ! I can look at this tableau and see only a picture, a painting.
Sometimes the words you are dead hit me when I'm not expecting them. Also the words I should not be here. And, quite often, I'm going away now. Sometimes I'll look to where a body should have been and gasp, only to find I am unable to cry.
So the world I left will have to play out as it wishes, as guided by the hands of people. People who fight hard to gain the ability to cause as much hurt or healing with their own hands as they wish. To be able to hurt what is hurtable, or to walk away.