chapter 1
(...she speaks)
I still remember every detail of the day I met the boy that I spoke my first words in 6 months for.
L.
I was tucked away in an orphanage in Munich, Germany after my father killed my mother, then himself. Because of my long, deep blood red hair, the staff at the orphanage had taken to calling me Red. To them, I came without a name.
I wouldn't speak a word. It wasn't because of trauma. I simply just didn't want to speak. My words just locked themselves away inside my head.
Naturally, because of my not wanting to speak, I didn't make friends. That was, until, an angel on four paws trotted into the yard one rainy morning. He was a black German shepherd. We bonded instantly. I named him Hannibal. He didn't look like a killer that would willingly eat human flesh, but because he had the most noble looking eyes. He looked like he would stick up for my honor, the way young Hannibal did for his aunt when a butcher said rude things about her in Hannibal Rising by Thomas Harris.
From that day on, Hannibal hardly left my side. I could think of no better way to spend a day than reading all day, especially outside on a perfect Autumn days, inhaling the sweet, crisp scent of the leaves with Hannibal laying by my side.
Hannibal lived up to his namesake. The other children found plenty of physical reasons to pick on me. They made cruel short jokes (I stand a whooping five-feet two inches), and also said that when I ate, it all went to my lower lip because it is very full. Hannibal always put himself in between me and my bullies, standing up for me and defending my honor, growling, and sometimes even snapping at them in a threatening manner.
My lack of verbal communication made it extremely easy to ignore them. Hannibal was my only friend. My best friend. I didn't need to speak to Hannibal. He just knew How I felt.
There was one particular thing I got picked on the most for. I was an abnormal freak of nature because several, sometimes dozens of times a day, I would look up and shake my head no at absolutely nothing. Or rather to their eyes, I was looking at absolutely nothing.
I was born with a sixth sense. For as long as I could remember, I've been able to see ghosts. They would come to me constantly, asking over and over again if I had something that belonged to them. I was always confused as to what they were asking for. They never told me, always accepting my answer looked dejected. Some of them even started to cry. Hannibal would whine softly in an effort to try and comfort them.
Then, it happened. My whole world came crashing down on me. The three boys that'd been teasing me mercilessly killed my beloved Hannibal.
Since I wouldn't talk, they decided to see if I was capable of screaming. Their method of choice was to hit me with large, heavy stones. And, my knight, my Hannibal, protected me, taking every hit for me. They thought my dog was just as good a substitute. Hey, she'll definitely scream if we kill her precious dog right in front of her.
I didn't scream. I don't think Hannibal would've wanted me to just play into their hands like that. But, I did cry. I cried a lot, until my eyes were red and swollen. I refused to let a single vocal sound came out of me.
Because I lost my best friend, I retreated even further inside myself. If the Headmaster or the staff had any high hopes of me speaking any time soon, they could just forget it now.
I just kept to myself, going through my days on auto-pilot, hiding behind my books. I barely made any effort to physically communicate with anyone. All my days began to blend together.
Even while I was reading, I couldn't even begin to tell you how lonely I felt without Hannibal by my side.
Then, on the third night after Hannibal's death, just as I was closing my book and getting ready to go to bed, everything changed.
As I stated before, I'd been supernaturally aware my entire life, but never did I ever expect to see my dead dog trot through the door. Apparently, I'd just come into my power as a necromancer that night, and had unknowingly raised Hannibal from the dead, which in turn set off a series of events that would change my life forever.
In the late afternoon the following day, I began to hear rumors circulating that the famous inventor, Quillish Wammy was going to be visiting the orphanage. I shrugged the rumors off and returned to my reading, thinking that the Headmaster and Mr. Wammy were old friends, and he was simply paying the Headmaster a friendy visit.
But I couldn't have been more wrong.
Everyone, except for me, gathered around the window of the rec room when his car pulled up. When I glanced up from my book, I was only able to see head and shoulder profiles of a well-dressed elderly man and a young teenager with unruly black hair, before they disappeared into the Headmaster's office.
I returned my attention back to my book, tuning everyone and everything out. Sometime later, the sound of a loud slurp drew my attention away from my book. I looked up to see the boy I'd seen walking with Mr. Wammy staring down at me, rolling and sucking—no, slurping— on a lollipop in his mouth.
"Am I correct in assuming that you are Red?"
I found that I enjoyed the smooth silky purr of his voice.
The first thought that went through my head was: Why would this uniquely handsome boy be seeking me out? I made an attempt at physical communication for the first time in days. I raised an eyebrow at him as he sat down next to me and drew his knees up to rest against his chest, suspicious as to why he was asking.
Turning, I reached into my beat up, black messenger bag, pulling out a notebook and a pen. Flipping to an empty page, I made a second effort at physical communication, and wrote:
-Yes. Who are you?
I handed him the notebook. Reaching over, he plucked the pen from between my fingers. Holding the top of the pen between his thumb and index finger, and wrote a response:
-If you give me your word that you won't read what I write here out-loud to anyone else, and you dispose this page when we are finished, I will tell you my identity.
He had horrible handwriting.
After I read his response, I looked him in the eyes, and mouthed: You have my word. I even crossed my heart for added effect. He took the notebook back from me and wrote:
-I am L.
…
My eyes widened when I read that. L! L, the century's greatest detective had been looking for me? I thought he had to be bullshitting me. He must've caught onto my reaction because he took the notebook back, and wrote:
-You don't believe me? What would I have to gain by lying about my identity?
I had to agree with that. What would he stand to gain by telling an outrageous lie like that one? I suddenly felt honored. I wrote:
- You do have a point. You would stand to gain absolutely nothing from telling a lie like that. But, why tell me that you are L?
Handing the pen and the notebook back to L, I looked up to see the Headmaster and Mr. Wammy watching us. The Headmaster had an astounded look of shock on his face as he watched me willingly communicating with L. Mr. Wammy looked at the Headmaster, and nodded before he began to make his way over to me and L.
I felt L tugging on my jacket sleeve to get my attention. I turned to him.
"Will you speak for me?"
He asked, his owlish eyes boring heavily into mine. I looked away from him, and back at Mr. Wammy, who had removed his hat, and was smiling warmly down at me. I blinked in question up at him.
"Hello, my dear," He greeted warmly. "My name is Quillish Wammy. It's a pleasure to meet you. What's your name?"
I looked away from Mr. Wammy, and back over at L. I scooted closer to him, tilting my head up so that I could whisper in his ear.
"*Mein Name ist Vivica."
L confirmed what I'd said, translating it into English. The Headmaster's jaw dropped, and Mr. Wammy looked pleased.
L flashed the Headmaster a triumphant, cocky, condescending smile. I suddenly understood why L had revealed himself to me. He'd made it a game between himself and the Headmaster, proving that he could accomplish something in under ten minutes what the staff of the orphanage failed for 6 months at.
I'd just spoken my first words in six months just for him. Just for L.
But, I also discovered something important that day. That L was dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Because, the second I saw his smile, I was done for. I would do anything for that boy. All he would have to do was say the word.
*My name is Vivica
Disclaimer! All fictional entities featured/ mentioned in this segment belong to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata; except Vivica and her dog, Iverson, who I made up for the purpose of this fan fiction.
Author's Note: Yes, Myriad is being reconstructed, again. For the last time. All the information as to the reasons why can be found in the second journal entry on my deviantart page. w w w (dot) smearedliner (dot) deviantart (dot) c o m Only this chapter will be in first person point of view. The rest of the story will be in third person.