A Perfect Circle "Hollow" and "Vanishing"
Numbness
His family took him out for dinner that night along with several of his father's coworkers. Light had met them before over cases as a student, and now they were welcoming him as a fellow agent. It was a no-holds-barred assault by nearly 10 people on the best restaurant his father and his friends could find. They had eaten and discussed the news, their work, movies, Light's achievements and many other things for what felt like hours. A good deal of advice, both joking and well-meaning, got handed down to him, and Light, ever the gracious child, smiled and thanked them, adding a light-hearted laugh if the comment called for it. His father and even his father's friends had offered several times to buy Light a drink to celebrate the occasion, and several of them indulged in their own, but Light had refused politely. He was chided good-naturedly for being "too well-behaved", but in truth, he had no desire to feel any more empty and dazed. In his state, he would probably start crying into his sake. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch in genuine amusement at the thought of himself being reduced to tears over anything.
Despite the gaiety around him, the atmosphere failed to reach him. It was as though he sat inside a bubble, watching the world from inside a sterile cocoon. The food was excellent, but it couldn't rouse his appetite. The everpresent boredom and an encroaching weariness had leeched all the taste, all the color from everything. It would have made a lesser man cry, but emotion was beyond him. All he felt was disappointment, a listlessness that drowned him.
Eventually, his family bid his father's friends, and soon-to-be his coworkers, good night and they went their separate ways. It occurred to Light on the drive home that he should have been celebrating his graduation with friends, likely going dancing or singing karaoke or just getting drunk at the nearest bar. The fact that this was normal didn't bother him in the least; at least this way, his parents were still proud of him for being a good son. Dinner had been much more bearable than going out with people he didn't actually care about, even if he did occasionally socialize for appearances' sake. Their names were already beginning to fade from his memory since he likely wouldn't see many of them in his line of work.
His family returned to the house, still in high spirits and sated from the meal. His father and mother sat on the sofa and Sayu curled up in her ridiculous pink papasan as they gathered in the living room. Light lingered in the doorway and made small talk over the television until he could get away with saying he was taking a walk. The smile on his mother's face dissolved into concern, and her expression grew worried. Light made a note to be more careful around her as he hurried to reassure her that he was just going for coffee; he needed to walk off his dinner.
Years ago, while still in high school, he had heard her talking in low voices with his father about depression. No one would ever accuse Sayu of being depressed, and even Light knew at the time that he was exhibiting symptoms. He had stopped playing tennis and had never brought friends home or even talked about any, so naturally his mother was worried. Ever since then, he had been careful to inject more feeling into his words and occasionally lie about going to see friends when he had really just spent several hours walking in a mostly thoughtless daze and drinking coffee downtown.
Light took some money from his stash for "incidentals" in his dresser; he didn't like swiping his card for small things like coffee, nor did he like carrying cash. Deciding not to bother with a jacket, he stepped into the brisk evening air. The sky was overcast with only a star or two peeking through. It would rain tonight, but he didn't care if he was caught in it. Plenty of things didn't matter right now so much as getting away. Briefly it occurred to him to wonder just what he was getting away from, but he pushed the thought aside and let the pleasant numbness wash over him as he decided to take a bus into downtown.
The bus took him to the block where his favorite coffeehouse lay while the rain started to fall. Other passengers hurried to open umbrellas or dash into businesses nearby to avoid the rain as they exited, but he merely strolled down the glistening sidewalk and into the relatively small shop. It was warm and stifling with the smell of people just rained upon, but the roasty-sweet smell of coffee soon overlaid it, so it was quite bearable. He took a moment upon entering to close his eyes and inhale deeply; the familiar scents of aerated milk and the sharp burned odor of espresso gave him a measure of peace despite his current mental state. The dull roar of the coffee grinders and the steam heads on the espresso machines eclipsed the conversation of those around him, and, for a time, he hung suspended, blissfully thoughtless, only peripherally aware of breathing in and out and bleeding the tension out of his body.
As reality slowly returned, he moved to stand behind the last person in line for the counter, his eyes still glazed over of their own accord despite his best efforts to look self-possessed and composed. He never wanted to look sloppy in front of others, but he couldn't be bothered to be friendly as well as a girl passed by him and looked at him shyly.
The counter was in front of him before he knew it, and he found himself ordering only a medium coffee from the perky girl behind the counter. The steaming liquid in his hand was something to hang onto, something solid. He moved toward the condiment bar with its creamers and sugars, both real and fabricated, but left without putting anything into the steaming brew. He took a sip as he stepped back into the now chilly weather, and it scorched his tongue. Through the pain, he took note of the bland earthiness of the brew and decided that it was a Sumatran or another Malaysian coffee.
The rain had stopped for the time being, as though merely issuing a warning of things to come. His feet took him without purpose further into downtown, the lights of the businesses around him blurring into colored streamers and meaningless words. After an indeterminate amount of time, he stopped in the middle of a pedestrian bridge. Normally his mood would demand solitude, but the rush of vehicles below drowned out any sound of passersby behind him. Perhaps the noise would also offer a respite from his thoughts. He felt no need to take note of his surroundings as he let his eyes wander; he had nothing of worth on him other than his identification and a few dollars.
His increasing apathy would have bothered him in the past, or at least annoyed him with its potential for melodrama or a self-pitying train of thought, but... he just didn't care right now. Nothing meant a great deal as long as he escaped.
He set the coffee on the railing next to his hand and let his eyes go out of focus as he looked down at traffic. Headlights became meteors, trailing red, yellow, and white light against shining black pavement rather than a black sky. Car horns and revving engines became distant thunder under his feet, making the ground vibrate slightly. The air was an oppressive blanket, heavy with rain and unwilling to be finished washing the smells of the city out of the air. It would start raining again soon, but he let the humidity swath him in numbing layers as a familiar oblivion took hold of him.
Memories of the last few years came unbidden, rising above his consciousness like oil floating on water. Images and sounds flashed across his mind's eye. His family's smiles as he showed them success after success in both school and college, and their praise that meant less and less to him. His so-called friends' admiration and respectful compliments, and even their occasional ill-disguised jealous glances. Juvenile love notes and glances sent his way by many an admirer, notes that went unread into the trash and glances eventually ignored. The NPA director's genuine pleasure at his success and future potential. His teachers' comments that he was a tribute to the college, bound for a successful future.
He sipped at his coffee again, now that the temperature approached drinkable, as a faint smirk twisted his lips.
What was this "success", anyway? It was a word that was thrown around a lot during his schooling, eventually growing meaningless as it was overused. Was success a good job, a steady income followed by the inevitable marriage to a suitable partner and eventually... children? Was it climbing the corporate ladder until he reached the top, managing a company or a team of detectives, as was more likely in his case? Was it retiring early from a lucrative career and spending his time writing books about his "success" and how others could achieve it?
The idea of writing was laughable. No one needed to read about his private spiral into mindless unfeeling and simultaneous incredible achievement at scholarly pursuits. He mocked the idea of himself ever being a father to children, finding baby-talking or tossing kids in the air positively ludicrous. He couldn't even picture himself smiling, for pity's sake. For that matter, he scoffed at the thought of marrying one of the vapid, doe-eyed girls that he saw on campus, even if they had to be markedly intelligent to get into Tokyo University. The plainer and more studious women held equal interest for him.
Success. Whatever it was, it was meaningless to him. He just needed a challenge, something to make him wake in the morning eager to start his day. Something to give him purpose. That was all.
He was tired of feeling frustrated during his days. The world was falling apart around him, and he could do nothing alone to stop it. He had watched his father, his personal example of justice, for years, and despite all the work he put into his job at the cost of time with his family, the same incidents kept happening. Genius he might be while his father was not, but his father's workload was a testament to the fact that justice as a whole was ineffective. His father didn't have enough time for them because the criminals took him away, but they couldn't all be killed by some god's hammer. Besides, if they were all gone, who would challenge Light? Who would create the cases that he would unravel? His very future depended, in part, on the continued depravity of those around him. He hated it, but he would not survive without it.
It all turned into some horrible downward spiral. Looking down into it made Light want to go crazy so he didn't have to keep thinking about it, to keep seeing it taunting him. He put his thoughts on pause as he raked fingers through his auburn hair and took a deep draw of his drink, willing away the chill that threatened to distract him.
In the last 4 or 5 years, he was growing increasingly... tired, and it looked as though the situation was never going to change. Despair was never something he would admit to feeling; it was too extreme, but disappointment? Maybe. Tired? Certainly. He was tired.
Tired of seeing crime, crime, crime all over the place: gruesome murders, crimes of passion, violence, robberies, rape. Tired of studying or pretending to when it wasn't necessary. Tired of watching his classmates fooling around in class, discussing trivial relationship details and pop star gossip; tired of seeing how they refused to take the world seriously. Tired of putting effort into something that no one else seemed to personally care about even though they congratulated him. Tired of the same dreary routine every day: waking, running, studying, eating, taking tests, talking to and lying to his family, eating again, watching the news or reading, sleeping. Repeat ad nauseum.
A sudden crushing weight bore him down until he pressed his forehead to the slick railing in front of him, his thoughts effectively derailed. He drew a shuddering breath as his foundation, his very stability, quaked. Would he spend his whole career like that? Waking every day unwilling to face the reality that his work, his life was ultimately futile? When had his life become so... hollow, stripped of anything other than mere survival? So bloody meaningless?
His eyes stung from the sudden pain in his chest, but he blinked it away, standing and sipping at his now-cold coffee. It was getting colder outside, but he blocked out the distraction and shook his damp hair out of his eyes, refocusing on the cars moving below him. It might have been his imagination, but his coffee tasted faintly of salt.
It had been a while since he'd allowed himself to feel that sentimental, that weak. He rewound his thought process, trying to recall disappointment rather than the hopelessness that had nearly overtaken him. Some days despair was a very real possibility, a monster lurking in the shadows, waiting to overtake him if he ever slipped up. He had felt its breath on his neck a moment ago, a cold caress that promised sweet oblivion, if only he would release control of his thoughts, his emotions. It was appealing sometimes, the thought of letting go, not caring what others thought of him and just feeling all the hate and frustration and rage, and maybe, in time, the things like joy and happiness would come back to him.
But he would never surrender control. He had too much pride.
He had had passion once, for tennis and for school. These things had made him feel good in the past, but they had slowly been consumed by an overwhelming need for him to distance himself from the sheer stupidity around him. It was a wonder he'd graduated at all, now that he came to think of it. Only pride had fueled him these last few years. Pride would never allow him to be a dropout or a failure at anything, even if he had forgotten why he kept doing things in the first place. Only that had pushed him to keep waking up, getting dressed, and going to school.
He reached back to his coffee, which had grown cold as ice, and sipped at it, blinking the rain out of his eyes. The strong flavor woke him up as the caffeine surely would shortly. He wore the watch his father had given him, but he didn't feel like checking the time. His work wouldn't officially start for two weeks. His father had encouraged him to take some time off to relax and perhaps start looking for an apartment. His mother insisted that he could stay at home until he was settled at work, but his father seemed to understand he would want his own space, not that he knew what he would do with it.
He sighed, feeling more empty now that he had spent so much time in thought. Funny. Light had never known that feeling dead inside could hurt this much.
Light didn't really notice when most of the traffic noises had died away, but the sound of two people conversing carried to his ears and woke him briefly from his daze. It was two men conversing in English, from the sound of it. Simple curiosity demanded that he pull himself out of his reminiscing and translate; English had been a relatively simple course, but he didn't get many opportunities to practice outside listening to television. It sounded like they were talking about car trouble and a hotel. To his surprise, one of the men stopped in his peripheral vision and addressed him rather than continuing across the bridge.
"Young man, I seem to be too late, but please take the umbrella regardless." This was said in polite Japanese in a cultured voice. Light turned his head to see that the man held out his open umbrella toward him. As if someone was turning up the volume on a speaker, the sound of the rain that had been falling for hours rushed to his ears. He realized that he was completely soaked, his limbs numb with cold. His hair was plastered to his face, and he had never even noticed, so deep into the morass of his thoughts he had sunken.
The man before him was in his 50's at least, his eyes kind behind his spectacles. He wore a dark colored trenchcoat and a fedora. His much younger black-haired companion hung further back in the shadows under his own umbrella, as though reluctant to be seen.
He was unused to the kindness of complete strangers, so it was with great hesitation, or perhaps great lack of muscle control, that he turned and reached out for the umbrella. Manners dictated that he not refuse a gift and insult the elderly gentleman, for his companion also had one to keep the older man dry.
The true measure of the cold hit him as he moved, as simply moving his limbs caused the sluggish blood to course through his icy veins. His teeth clenched so hard and so suddenly that he thought his jaw would crack as his fingers turned to claws, his words of thanks forgotten while his body shook uncontrollably. To his surprise, the man shoved the umbrella roughly into his hands, punching Light in the chest when he failed to grasp it. Even more shocking was the enormous fist that slammed into his face and brought a welcoming darkness.
Author's note - Guess who: )