Monologues
-
-
L stood in front of the glass display case at the cafe, contemplating which desserts needed to come home and filtering out which ones would not last on the trip back. Anything that needed to be refrigerated was out; that eliminated mousse, gelato, ice cream, cheesecake... He sighed. There were so many lovely choices, but because he was on foot, at least until he called Wammy to pick him up, he couldn't chose as freely as he wanted. He finally settled on a baker's dozen of various cookies, for these would be the least messy to eat. Chunky chocolate chip, peanut butter cup, white chocolate with macadamia nuts, shortbread with jam in the center, snicker-doodles, and heavily frosted sugar cookies were sure to improve his mood, which was mildly disappointed due to his run-in with Light.
This project was starting to become a lot of trouble for him. He had hoped to find that Light was as promising as his records had shown since he fit the profile that L was starting to create in his head, but this pesky depression problem and now the suicide issue? If L didn't have too much pride to admit that his intuition might have been incorrect, he would have washed his hands of this boy, suicidal or not. He didn't personally care about him, after all. Only Wammy would genuinely care about his suicidal tendencies, and that was if L chose to share those particular thoughts.
Light had gone into the park, as L suspected he would. The boy was probably looking to stay out of sight for a while, at least until he was sober enough to fool his parents. L was sure he would never allow anyone else to see him in this state if he could help it. It gave him a bit of sadistic glee to contemplate denying him even this small pleasure.
Despite a near-certain knowledge of Light's current mindset, however, he chose not to worry about Light actually committing suicide before he could get to him. He knew Light was not hasty enough to rush into the decision; if anything, he would probably spend too much time just thinking about it. That was another thing to consider; thus far, he had been fairly predictable as far as depressed geniuses went, but L was hoping that would not be the case in the future; he planned to push Light so far out of his comfort zone that he didn't even recognize himself anymore. He had been hoping for a bit of a challenge, after all. Goodness knows he hadn't found that much elsewhere; his case history could attest to that.
That thought suddenly surprised him as much as the great detective L could be surprised. Why had he not seen it before? These problems of Light's were only going to make it more difficult to turn him into what L wanted. The boy had pride and perhaps a bit of obstinacy as well. L saw some of his own traits reflected in him. He wasn't going to cow to L's wishes; if anything, that pride he had would make him resistant, a much more difficult piece of clay to sculpt. A contest of whose will was stronger.
Light-kun, you may prove useful after all. I'll make you into what I want, as long as you have the intellectual and deductive capabilities I require. It was a challenge to himself.
He changed trains of thought, noticing that the girl taking his order was only slightly less exuberant compared to her greeting of other customers. L noted the hesitancy, likely due to his disheveled appearance, and shrugged it off just as quickly. Whatever these people thought of his outward appearance was beneath his contemplation. They didn't matter to him. L only attributed true worth to those actually useful to him, other than Wammy, of course.
He picked up his cookies and ordered a coffee with six sugars and plenty of cream as well, for he could never buy dessert and not have coffee or at least tea with it. Some things were better suited to coffee, others to tea, and of course, varying levels of sugar were required depending on the time of day. Smiling inwardly as he readied himself to pay, he decided a slight alteration to his plans might be in order due to his recent musings.
Maybe he should order another coffee.
Light put his chin in one palm as he continued to stare, eyes half-lidded, into the drizzle, which caused everything from blades of grass to the occasional tiny flower to sparkle. It was always raining, wasn't it? Every time he left the house, it rained. It seldom helped to improve his mood. Where was the sun? He had not seen it in weeks, not since he woke in Ryuzaki's hotel room.
The gears in his head were slow to turn, but they eventually started as he pursued the train of thought he'd begun.
How does one go about deciding to die? His usual cognitive brilliance was lost to him due to his intoxicated state, but that didn't stop him from trying to ponder it anyway. It might even have encouraged him. His mood suited it, and his weariness begged him to cement everything in his mind so he could finally sleep and not dread waking up. It was like casting a fishing lure; he cast blindly, waiting for the first thought to surface since he didn't really know how to go about ... thinking about killing himself. It sounded so terrible to call it that, though.
The most obvious questions came up first. Where and how? More importantly, when? It didn't have to be right away, he knew that much. He could take his time deciding; it was enough of a relief to know that he wasn't going to wake every day until he was 80 and face the dreary world.
Where am I going to do it? At home?
He frowned slightly at the thought of his mother finding him. It would probably scar her for years, maybe even traumatize her, to find her perfect son dead by his own hand. As much as it bothered him to admit it, though, he didn't love her enough to stay alive just for her sake. He felt suddenly guilty. After all, what kind of son doesn't care enough to want to spare his own mother the sight of his corpse?
His corpse... Now there was an odd thought. He viewed it with detached interest. They were ultimately just words, and he felt no emotional connection to the word 'corpse'. He wouldn't have to see it, anyway. It... it wasn't even him anymore.
This would take some thought, he decided. He didn't want to leave something so vulgar as a disgusting mess for his family to clean up. He wanted the last memories of him to be attractive. His actual death should be a mere occurrence, not a memory stained with horror that eclipsed happier times with him.
He blinked slowly, the water falling a few feet in front of him sparkling like glitter in the air. There were many things to ponder. His eyes rolled up and to the left, his gaze unfocused as his thoughts retreated inward.
If I don't want Mother to find me dead, do I want to ... do it somewhere else?
Something in him was reluctant to use the word 'suicide'. Suicide was never something he would have associated with himself. Suicide was for Goths, something daring and darkly dramatic for 'emo' teenagers to write terrible poetry about before they slit their wrists in the bathtub. Suicide was good for movie stars or musicians. It provided a dramatic and shocking way out when their careers started to plummet and they lost the will to try anymore.
He was nothing like them. He had tried. He had tried for the last 7 or 8 years to feel something other than apathy and boredom while still working to make something of his life. He hadn't succeeded, however, and he wasn't going to waste more time on it. It stung his pride a little to admit that, but what was a little pride compared to a lifetime of misery? He had made up his mind.
He wasn't 'committing suicide.' He was just going to die, go quietly into nothingness. He sank back into his musings after the brief mental battle with his pride.
Do I want to die somewhere in public? Do I want to be found by a total stranger? That thought didn't sit well with him.
Do I want to leave a note telling my family where I am? That might work. At least his family wouldn't remember it for years every time they passed his room or the bathroom, wherever he might have chosen to do it.
Or do I...
... not want to be found?
His eyes closed slightly of their own accord. He glanced at the ground, disturbed by a sudden melancholy that he couldn't justify. He tried to keep thinking, not wanting a sadness likely due to the depressants running through his system to distract him.
What if I just leave a note telling them of my decision? I don't have to leave anything behind then, just the portrait of myself.
Maybe I should determine how to go through with it, then I can figure out the best place. That was a slightly better course of action. Coming up with a list and checking off possibilities. His gaze narrowed on the opening in the gate, giving him something to focus on, his expression growing determined.
Slitting my wrists... no, it's too womanly. It's unnecessarily dramatic, even if it is easy and supposedly peaceful.
Guns are almost impossible to find, so shootings aren't an option. Despite the certain finality of that method, Light worried that holding one would make him lose his nerve as well. Something about guns were too threatening, and the mess it would leave behind was disturbing. An image of himself lying on the floor, his mouth hanging open with brains and blood splattered all over his bedspread behind him made him shudder with revulsion. It was an ugly picture. Even if he didn't do that at home, the thought of that being the body he left for the world to take care of bothered him. He didn't care about his appearance for nothing.
Drowning? That's possible with the rivers here, and there won't be anything left behind. I've heard you start to feel really warm after your lungs fill with water. He couldn't feel completely passive about that one either, though. Getting to the drowning part might be frightening, though why he cared about things like that now was beyond his ability to reason. It must be the alcohol. If he really cared about pain or fear, he wouldn't have chosen this course of action. He continued musing, tapping his first two fingers on the edge of his jaw below his ear.
Hanging... ugh. That sounds terrible and drawn out, and the corpse wouldn't be pretty. Jumping isn't much better. I mean, what if the drop is not far enough? What if I live?
Light's expression warped with horror as he contemplated tumbling headfirst from the bridge he'd been on the other day. The drop was only about 20 or 25 feet, and while humans could certainly die from that kind of a fall, what if he had survived? People had recovered from incredible falls before; he had seen them on TV every now and then. What if he was forced to spend the rest of his days in a coma, or in a wheelchair, paralyzed, with a death wish he couldn't fulfill? He would be stuck in a living hell until the end of his life. He shivered, feeling suddenly cold. He would have to make sure it was a very tall building if he did do that.
Unfortunately, that would leave an even bigger mess than shooting himself. It would also be very public, and it would certainly make the papers if it came on the heels of his recent graduation announcement for breaking Tokyo University's record scores. Light didn't mind notoriety while he was alive, but having something that gruesome published about him after death would undo all of his life's achievements, such as they were. It would eventually be all people remembered about him.
Poisoning would be difficult since he didn't know the first thing about procuring them, even if drinking the Drano under the bathroom sink was an easy route to take. Where would he find something that would assuredly be potent enough to kill him and not cause unnecessary misery? He didn't want to suffer, just to die quietly.
So what do I ultimately want? I want it to be relatively fast, mostly painless if possible, and private. And I don't want to make a mess for my family, so it either needs to be clean or somewhere that no one will find the body.
It occurred to him that he ought to be more disturbed by thinking of himself as 'the body', but again, he shrugged it off. The alcohol was making that much easy, at least. It was more difficult to keep his thoughts focused rather than brushing things off.
Overdose. Now there was something that might work. He had heard of overdosing on painkillers, but he knew that an attempt to use Tylenol to do so would only earn him a stomach pumping and therapy. He would have to look up what types of over-the-counter medications might work. What about sleeping pills?
Light stilled. Sleeping to death…
He breathed out, a light approaching bliss blossoming in his eyes like stars even as the rest of his face remained impassive.
That sounded lovely.
Sleeping to death sounded perfect. Too good to be true, almost, but he knew it was a viable option. After all, he had seen reports of it in his father's casework and heard it on the news in some celebrities' cases.
His eyes slipped in and out of focus as he gave his mind free rein to wander now, contemplating exactly what that might feel like and how he could make it happen. Inexplicable relief flowed through him, as though a weight had lifted off his shoulders. He felt better physically than he had in weeks, even taking his illness and his own intoxication into consideration. He was at peace, which was as alien a feeling as happiness these days.
He felt satisfied with his decision...
...until something came along to shatter his dubious peace.
He was growing to expect it, or maybe he was still too drunk to be really surprised by anything, so his eyes failed to actually register the change in his surroundings. The park was no longer completely empty.
A shape slowly coalesced out of the misty darkness before him, the barely-falling rain creating a glittering nimbus around features thrown into shadow by the street lights behind it. The silhouette approached on silent cat-feet, the only sound an occasional crackle of a plastic bag. Light didn't react as it grew closer, neither looking directly at it or speaking. When it stopped only a few feet slightly to his right side, he knew exactly what it was anyway, even before the features grew clearer in his peripheral vision. Dark hair that spangled with moisture, pale skin, a scarf that covered the other's mouth, gray or black jacket over loose blue jeans and what might be white sneakers, but were hardly visible. Something in both hands and a bag dangling from one elbow.
It seemed as though he waited an eternity in placid contemplation of the far side of the playground, the other figure silent and unmoving as a statue, before finally rousing himself to speak. He put his hand down, still hunched over with his elbows on his knees. His eyes didn't even seek out the other's, merely staring off into the distance as he spoke.
"Hello again, Ryuzaki-san."
-
-
A/N - Another short chapter, but I didn't want to tack it onto the next one since it seemed more a continuation of last chapter. There was too much of a division on my mind, and this one was mostly musings anyway.
Light's soundtrack mostly consists of the songs from the last chapter and more Nightwish and Falling Up. L's is really different, because he MUST be something other than depressed, otherwise I'd cry the whole time I was writing. I think he is more mischievous for it, but his soundtrack is Daft Punk, 1200 Micrograms, and Infected Mushroom. Downright scary, if you think about it. A perky, trippy L. There's a plot bunny from hell if I ever saw one.
First "Monologues", then "Dialogue"! Finally! Conversation!
In closing, thank you for reading! I hope you're enjoying it so far!
