CLOSED HANDS
Jacob's ghost for the girl in white
Blindfold for the blind
-Bye Bye Beautiful, Nightwish
Light's eyes closed as he waited at the front of the chapel. He did not look up when he heard the music play, for his mind was far away. Anyone watching may have thought he looked solemn or thoughtful, but couldn't see the mental turmoil hiding inside the glaringly cheery mask, or how he fought to remain calm while his freedom slowly slipped from his grasp.
It wasn't marrying Misa that he loathed; he could live with marrying Misa. No, it was what the act of matrimony symbolizes that had him wanting to bolt towards the door.
The wedding itself was western style—Misa's choice, as neither of them wished to partake in a tradition native to their own country. But truth be told, most of it was for Misa's publicity in the west, as was exhibited by the numerous photographers snapping pictures of the décor and gloomy husband-to-be.
Each face behind the camera was covered by a formal mask for the occasion and Light couldn't help but smirk at the sight. No doubt the wedding would be publicized in some magazine within the next three days. Beside the picture of blonde model and distant husband would be a caption from the editor, or perhaps a quote from the happy bride herself—something, perhaps, about undying love, or happy endings, not mentioning, of course, her lack of enthusiasm towards her husband.
And vice versa.
What would he tell them (because they would ask)? Would he tell them the truth, that he was dirt poor and was only using the poor girl to save his family? That he only married so that when he was killed in the army, his family would have some source of income? That he was only obligated in the first place because of a stupid agreement between fathers on their death beds? And what would they possibly say to that? What could they say to the truth?
And her… what could they possibly say about her? A— Misa, the woman who married a man poorer than the mud on the street—not for love, but because her god told her too, because a corpse's successor had proclaimed in his ever-so-holy manner that she must be wed to the son of Y— Soichiro. What would they possibly say to that? But, of course, they wouldn't interview him; after all, he was no one. Not even a genius, anymore. No, they would stay far away from the moody husband lurking in the corner and only speak with the cheering actress-of-a-wife. A few words, maybe, from him, beside a picture of an empty face, a mask. Yes, publicity had indeed fallen since the day the world had shed their faces.
He felt the attention turn from him towards the back of the room where his bride stood draped in white, a veil concealing her masked face in a tradition that was more ridiculous than ever. Even when the veil was removed, he would never see her living face. It would only be a corpse that would bear her features.
He turned to see her mouth curved downwards, brown eyes—she had neglected her contact lenses—staring straight ahead as she walked steadily down the aisle. Alone, with only the spirit of her father to accompany her, the ghost of yet another fallen solider, another reminder of what the future held for Y— Light.
She stepped up beside him, her eyes empty. They looked at each other, searching for sympathy in the other's eyes, praying for some hint of pity for the fate they were both condemned to.
Her by a god, and him by a government. How different their lives seemed to be. How could one man bind them together with nothing but two rings and couple of spoken vows? Words, nothing but meaningless words—nothing that could keep them together, but even in that empty promise, it held no hope for the world after death.
A pseudo wedding for their fake romantic lives. Somewhere out there, someone would believe the words they spoke were true and held meaning, and perhaps for them this would be what true love was, because in truth love was just as much of a sham as his future.
In the Words of Y— Light
2012, 4 May
20:30—GMT+9
One might be wondering, if they read this, 'why the hell is this boy writing in a diary? Why isn't he on his honeymoon, entertaining his wife? Why is he writing in a journal instead of participating in the rather romanticized tradition of married life?'
The answer to those questions is rather simple and requires no further explanation. Misa has given herself to God. Not that I am particularly bothered, of course—I never wanted to sleep with her in the first place. I've neither really had time for a full-on relationship nor, for that matter, the personality. Women are too high-maintenance for my taste, always complaining about the lack of dates, lack of commitment, lack of romance…. Look at another woman and they'll scream their heads off. Jealous harpies.
The last girl friend I had was named Kyoko. I was fifteen at the time, immensely busy but still in denial about the fact that God existed and hated my guts. Young and foolish, I thought I was nothing short of a god and could not only work three part time jobs and maintain good grades, but maintain popularity as well. Needless to say, this little experiment failed shortly.
Kyoko herself was what most would call cute. She had a short, pixie-like figure and an even shorter attention span; her hair was usually held up in a pony-tail or some other stylish fashion statement. While she was wearing nothing close to Misa's Lolita wardrobe, she had fairly short skirts and was, alas, a trophy girl friend, a statement to the world that Light Yagami could have a pretty girl.
We lasted slightly more than two months before disaster struck.
She got fed up with my studying and I had no time for her—what free time I did have was spent sleeping or being a vegetable and doing absolutely nothing. I didn't want to spend my few hours spare with a girl I hardly knew. I told her this myself when she hadn't see me for three weeks. She exploded. In the female mind, I apparently must have her as my first priority, and I didn't. She wanted a prince, I wanted an image; she wanted a soul mate and I wanted an illusion. Neither of us got what we wanted in the end. Thankfully she moved to America later that year, saving us both the trouble of a post-break-up-situation.
What does this story have to do with why I'm sitting on the couch staring blankly at a poorly written television show? Absolutely nothing, except for the fact that it portrays the last woman to ever have an interest in a romantic relationship with me (the stalkers do… not… count…).
Misa uses me to get closer to Kira-sama. Quite a blow to my already-wounded ego, that the woman I married should want me for nothing more than a corpse. Well, I hope the bastard is proud right now, because I have to hand it to him—he is quite the genius. I'm not entirely sure about what he has against me, personally. After all, I've never done anything to him. He has a wonderful talent at picking out enemies, though. I hope he enjoys Misa more than I would have, because they deserve each other. They truly do.
But that, again, is beside the point. Our honey moon was destined to be short, anyway. I wasn't looking forward to it; in fact, I was dreading spending time alone with the She Demon.
It turns out I didn't need to be worried.
We had decided before the wedding to spend our honeymoon in the least romantic place possible—some random hotel in down-town Tokyo. Of course, when I say random, I don't mean cheap (which was my desire). Misa did not sympathize with my wish to remain a frugal bastard, and thus, we reserved the honeymoon suite in Tokyo's most extravagant hotel. Most of the expense was sacrificed to, again, her publicity, and for perhaps the first time in my life it was I who felt like the trophy wife. All the pictures being snapped while I was being dragged from room to room like a toy doll, out of context recordings of my voice… humiliation at its highest.
Is this what the normal people call karma? The revenge of the fates for all of my gross misdeeds? Dear god, no wonder all the common folk act so generously.
After dinner and (a rather stunted) conversation with the press, we eventually found our way to our room, and… of course, there was only one bed—because heaven forbid the press find out we got a two-bed room after just getting married—so, being the man, I was condemned to the couch whilst Misa the Priestess Queen slept in her KING-SIZED, I repeat in bold letters King-Sized, bed! Not that the couch isn't nice—it has a nice springy mattress compressed inside and a rather large television in front of it, with (of course) ten thousand channels and not a single thing on to watch. Even reality television has taken a down-hill slide since the Shinigami became public (…yes, apparently reality television still had a hill, which is, remembering the random broadcasts of Clash of the Choirs and Farmer Wants a Wife). Lately, the prime time shows have been animated movies and infomercials—at three a.m., it only gets worse.
Hence why I am writing in this Goddamn diary.
Oh, thank God. A documentary is on. My brain cells are saved.
Outside, the streetlamps glowed dimly, casting sporadic patches of light across the sidewalk. A few masked individuals walked briskly through the early spring night, flanked by neon signs advertising various alcoholic beverages. The windows were shut against the night air, and where once the streets were busy, they now looked nearly deserted and bare, like a skeleton stripped of its skin, empty bones reflected in the starless night.
Somewhere above, a solider wrote, his brown eyes downcast, staring indifferently at the scrawled words below him, his apathetic expression hidden behind a mask of tragedy. Somewhere before him stood the detective who stared onto the same dimly-lit street not so very long ago, his dark hair standing on end and his eyes roaming the horizon. Their minds are on a different level and were in very different place, but they both had no idea what it is that awaited them at the journey's end.
Detective and solider. The unmasked and the hidden. One hid behind a letter; one hide behind a cloth rag. Neither were prepared for what awaited them. Neither of them wanted to be.
"It sure is… big," said the fourteen-year-old girl warily, eyes moving around the room in a cross between awe and horror. Beside the Japanese girl stood her brother, who held a cardboard box in his arms and breathed out in what, to anyone else, would sound like exasperation.
"That is generally the definition of a mansion. Voluminous, monumental, gargantuan, an immense amount of land with a copious amount of space and bathrooms for which many purposes are unknown. She probably has a whirlpool, too…." The eighteen year-old dropped the box of ragged belongings onto the floor. Written on the cardboard in black sharpie were the words 'Yagami belongings: Yes, someone actually owns this crap'.
"Where is Misa, anyways? I thought you two were married. Aren't you supposed to be all lovey-dovey?" asked Sayu mischievously, brown eyes glinting in dark humor as her brother looked over once again, his mask concealing his dubious expression and raised eyebrow.
"Misa and I are the farthest thing from lovey-dovey. Romance is not high on our marital agenda, thank God. Where's Mother? I was under the impression she was going to help unpack." Light sifted through the box carefully taking out various crumpled objects and setting them on the floor.
"Okaa-san is working… she doesn't get off 'til five." She paused, twitching slightly, then shouted, "Hey, I thought we had more stuff than that! Where'd it all go?" Sayu surveyed the small amount of assorted lamps and mirrors in dismay.
"E-Bay, pawning, the gutter…" muttered the lean brunette, still taking objects out of the box with care and ignoring his sister's confusion.
"Charity?" asked Sayu, remembering various charities she had passed while walking along the sidewalk.
"No, Sayu, I was trying to get rid of it. Why on earth would I want it back?" The older brother smirked as he noted his sister's poorly concealed smile. Sad times when he could pull off that joke.
"So are you actually going to tell me where Misa is?" Sayu watched as Light's fingers stilled his shoulders tensed. When he finally did speak, it was in a hushed voice, hesitant and rather reticent—he was quite reluctant to reveal information.
"It's not important; Misa will be back when she gets back." He smiled thinly at the house surrounding him, "Until then, we can bask in the enjoyment of her absence to its utmost potential." Sighing in the relief that comes with completing one's task-at-hand, Light walked over to an ornate couch and jumped upon it without any outward signs of reservation. "At least her couch is nice…."
"I wonder what it's going to be like," Sayu uttered in a low voice that somewhat crossed between a mutter and a vicious jab, "when you're gone." She watched her brother close his eyes and drift into a half slumber with mild irritation, already knowing that his answer would be a creative variation on 'Not thinking about it, so stop asking me'.
"Sayu, the nice thing about the phrase 'I'll talk about that tomorrow' is that, technically, tomorrow will never come. As humans, we are constantly trapped within the present, so when we say something will be 'done tomorrow', or if we speculate the future in any way, we are indeed looking at something that will never happen. As a result, I will think about that tomorrow." After his pre-composed mini-speech, Light sighed and continued to fake-doze on the couch, ignoring Sayu's amused look of both mild confusion and dull acceptance. Slowly, though, as the silence continued, Light could practically hear the smile slipping from her face.
"You will come back, though? Someday, when all this is over, you'll be able to come back home."
"Someday."
It was two days later that the young prodigy found his way to the nearest empty bus stop. Hunching against the brisk April weather, he stood motionlessly, his eyes conveying nothing to those who passed him by. Against his leg rested a faded leather bag, filled with several pairs of clothing, toiletries, and one thin black note book.
Cars rushed past in the city's constant rush hour traffic, the clear sign of a metropolis—although, admittedly, Tokyo's new definition of 'rush hour' was several hours faster than the old. The young man did not appear to notice them any more than they noticed him as he wondered, briefly, what his wife would be doing now, wondered whether she even realized he had left. He had, after all, departed well before any sane man would have awoken, as the ratio of cars-on-the-street to insane-Shinigami-Servants-and-Kira-worshippers-in-Tokyo would attest to.
Y— Light wasn't the type of man to drag his heels into death fearing the moment of the strike. No, Light wouldn't sit and contemplate his fate within the stillness of his room any longer. He had had enough of waiting—waiting and doing nothing. Instead, he had left far earlier than expected, leaving nothing sentimental, nothing needed. If he had a choice, he would choose to meet his destiny on his own terms.
He was a man who believed in the first strike.
Scourge's Note: Yes, all above reality television shows were actually broadcast at one point. Disturbing, isn't it? And the previous two chapters were pre-wedding thoughts; this was a more coherent mid-to-end-wedding account.
A poem about reviewing:
Don't you love AU
Where nothing makes sense to you
Where lives are ruined
And authors run out of rhymes for the word ruined
And slowly readers realize that this isn't a poem
But more of a rant where the author ran out of words
Dammit, why can't the co-authoress write poetry?
Review and hopefully that will NEVER happen again.