Strength and Weakness

I don't know how, or why, the idea came to me. I mean, obviously, it was the result of the events from the past several hours, but still. My idea wasn't… right. Wasn't clean, wasn't moral. Wasn't me.

But all's fair in love and war, and to tell the truth, I was ready to stoop down as low as possible to get to where I needed to be—free. If it meant moral corruption, fine. I could play dirty; it was the only thing I'd yet to try.

My brain began to fire up, wheels turning, mind buzzing, as I concocted the details of my plan. It was strange, going from emotionally overloaded, to panicked, to maniacal, all within one hour. I was still sitting in fetal position on the floor of the shower when I started to think up the plan, and although I still screamed when the door flew open and Beyond rushed in to tear open the shower curtain, there was still a bit of hope—a bit of confidence, even—hiding away inside my stomach. Hope and confidence for what was about to put in place.

What worried me was the other thing I felt churning in my stomach—the thing that seemed to intensify by the hundreds, as Beyond came ever closer. He grabbed me by the wrists and pulled me up so I was standing.

How sickening was it, that I could feel both attraction and terror at his touch? If my plan was to work, these feelings would have to go. For good. They would only complicate the matter, make things harder, and worse than necessary. And it was already going to be very complicated, and very hard.

Of course, I knew things wouldn't be as easy as saying one, two, three and throwing my emotions out the window. But I could bottle them up, for now, and try not to let them out—or, at the very least, try to forget about them.

It was really only lust after all. I didn't love him—he was a menacing, handsome, insane, dangerous, monstrous psychopath, who I knew nearly nothing about. And the lust was simply a product of my screwed-up head—more than likely a result of the traumatic experiences I'd been through in the past month.

But I should feel thankful for lust—happy because of it. Beyond did not have the capability to feel love, I'd figured that out already. But he could feel lust, obviously. And he could tell if I had similar feelings as well. It was this lust, this desire for the body, that I decided to use against him.

Seducing Beyond—what a lovely thought.

Although, really, seducing him wasn't necessarily my goal, but making him feel as if he'd seduced me. Allow him to believe he had me in the palm of his hand, and that I would do anything for him, feel anything for him.

Meanwhile, I would use this as a way to get inside his head, his thoughts, his mind—I would use it to grow a deeper understanding of who he was, how he worked… And, eventually, take him down from the inside. The ultimate espionage. And when he least expected it, I would make my exit… whether that involved an injury to him, or not.

Who knew where this could lead, in the end? Only to something good. Something a lot like the freedom I greatly yearned for.

Beyond led me, still by the wrists, into the main bedroom. The curtains were closed, but I could still see a small sliver of light peak out from beneath them as the sun no doubt was beginning to rise. It then crossed my mind exactly how tired I felt.

All my planning, all my thinking, ceased. I laid down on the bed, forgetting too about the fact that there was only one. I closed my eyes and oh, how good it felt. Giving in to my exhaustion, letting it take over me, felt amazing. I could have sworn, too, that I felt the wool blanket from the foot of the bed being draped over my body, by an obscure and towering figure. But maybe I pulled it up on my own. I was much too tired to remember.

When I woke up, I couldn't tell whether it was morning still, afternoon, evening, or night. I had no idea how long I'd slept. The standard alarm clock that had once sat by the bed was now unplugged and lying on the ground. The curtains had been taped to the windows, so (if it was daytime) no light could filter in. Beyond certainly liked his duct tape.

I figured the easiest way to find out the time was to turn on the tv. But that was unplugged, too, from both the electrical socket and the cable box. I wasn't really in the mood for messing around with wires, or Beyond's temperament, so I decided against plugging it back in.

Speaking of Beyond, where was he?

He was gone again, completely from the room. I relaxed a bit and spread out on the bed. From the looks of it, he had been sleeping there, too. I shuddered, a bit from disgust, and a bit from that sick, unexplainable excitement.

My clothes were dirty—or, well, if you could call what I wore clothes. I decided to dress in something different. Why not? My bag was lying right next to the bed, and had all the things I'd brought with me on my trip in.

I found clean underwear, a clean t-shirt, and clean pants. Boring, boring, boring. Back at school, my… acquaintances, if you could call them that, were not particularly into fashion. Or, if they were, they had a good reason for it. Such as if it were a day for cosplay, for example. I wasn't much of a cosplay person myself, but I knew a few people who were. Especially around Halloween and anime conventions. A lot of people dressed up on Halloween, surprisingly. Even the juniors and seniors.

But what I found had become more and more frequent was the subject of detective work. It was like when I was a little kid, and everyone wanted to dress up as a superhero from their favorite comics. Only now, people were choosing not characters from graphic novels, but real-life people who they felt were more of a superhero than Batman or the Flash could ever be.

And the real-life people they chose to dress up as just happened to be detectives.

Who knows when this big detective craze first began. It could have been after an unsolved bank robbery mystery (the biggest excitement our county had seen in decades) brought a public detective from Indianapolis to our tiny southern Indiana town. It could have been when Robert Heishman gave a report in eighth grade about the FBI, and Special Forces, and pretty much how badly he wanted a job in the field, during our second-period US History class.

But more likely, when the three biggest detectives of the world seemed to merge into existence, from what seemed like out of nowhere—that's probably when people started going gaga over the whole detective thing.

And who knows why we did? Our town seemed like pretty much the only one obsessed with the Big Three. Then again, we were a pretty weird town.

But I guess our obsession with superheroes seemed to evolve. Our Spiderman costumes became dark suits and trench coats—seeing as no one really knew what these detectives looked like, they decided to go with the standard: whatever was shown in the movies.

Often times, to distinguish which detective they were trying to be, my peers' costumes would have name tags attached, reading "Eraldo Coil," or "Danuve." This seemed silly to me. I really doubted the real-life Eraldo Coil or Danuve wore nametags. They were armchair detectives—sitting at home, drinking coffee, watching TV while solving mysteries through the phone. Definitely not the romanticized trench-coat-wearing hunks everyone seemed to make them out to be.

I never really was as detective-crazy as the rest of my town, but there was still one detective I admired, and—I'll admit—went a little bit crazy about. Simply because he was nearly impossible to ignore.

L.

The number one detective in the world. He did interest me. How could he not? He interested everyone.

I practically studied and researched him for months. I was fascinated by everything about him—well, rather, everything I knew of him. Being an anonymous hidden detective meant no one knew much about him, aside from what one heard through the grapevine. But his deductive skills—they amazed me. During my ninth grade year, I wanted to be just like him. Grow up to become and to replace L, steal his name, and take my rightful place at the top. But although I was intelligent—or believed myself to be, anyway—I knew his mind, among many others, was far superior to my own. He and the rest of the high IQ population would have to die out before I became the new L.

Over time our town grew to have issues, and impossible hopes and dreams, such as L becoming interested in a case in our area and visiting—despite the fact that the only cases we really had to offer were of missing dogs and convenience store hold-ups, and rumor had it that the only cases L worked on were cases either worth one million dollars, or cases that interested him

Despite these issues, though, our strange little town sort of died down a bit about detectives. I wondered if all the residents were glued to their TV sets, hoping to see if now that they had a real kidnapping on their hands, they could get L to become involved with our community. Of course, leave it to the people I know—or once knew, anyway—to see my being taken as a good thing rather than a bad. I could see it now, the headlines in the local paper: not "Girl Goes Missing, the Tragedy!" but "Girl Goes Missing, Will L Get Involved?"

Like I was worth a million dollars, or interesting to him. I was only one of the trillions of cases he had lined up, in his house, wherever the hell it was he lived. Although, if anyone could beat Beyond, it was L. And if anyone could stand a chance against L, it was Beyond. If L was smart enough, Beyond was crazy enough. But if the stories I'd heard about L were true, than perhaps he was just as crazy, too.

But no… there was only one person, here and now, that could save me. And that was me. I reminded myself of this, as I finished dressing. I can only save me. I will take that chance no matter what…

And speak of the devil. At that moment, Beyond entered the motel room.

SWOOSH. A huge wave of conflicting emotions washed over me. He had barely been in my sight for longer than a second, and already I felt like vomiting.

He walked towards me, with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Apple?"

He held up the red fruit, as I let out my breath. I hadn't even realized I was even holding my breath.

"Yes," I said, only because I was afraid of saying no to Beyond. I took it but I wasn't hungry; I was too nauseous to eat. When he wasn't looking, I stashed it back in the bag, with the rest of my clothes.

Soon, we both quieted down. And I guess you could say things got awkward quickly. He sat on the bed, I sat on the floor. The prisoner and the guard. It seemed like the first time in a while that he wasn't A) dragging me somewhere, B) threatening to kill me, or C) actually trying to kill me.

It seemed like the perfect time to put my plan in motion, but nerves made me put it off. It wouldn't go over well if, when seducing him, I actually threw up. No—probably not well at all.

In the silence, however, I felt like something should be said. He was simply just staring at me—with that creepy, penetrating glare. Wanting to fill the silence, I timidly and carefully spoke.

"Are we going to move again soon?"

For some reason, this question seemed to annoy him. He stood up and turned around, but not before I saw his eyes narrow.

"We'll stay here as long as we need to. Until… they find us."

This confused me, as much as the incident with the so-called "tracking" did. He showed an unusual attitude towards the situation. Even though I knew better than to question it, I found myself saying,

"You were acting… strange, back in Chicago... Why?"

His annoyance seemed to grow. However, I was too curious to stop. I wanted to know. I needed to know. Something told me that this was important.

"Is there something else going on?"

His fists clenched.

"I would be more worried about your own well-being, than about what is going on outside of you and me?"

Something about his voice, and his clenched fists, did something strange to me. It frightened me, yes, but it also sparked a small flame of rebellion unusual for me. Anger, over everything, the entire situation.

Before I could stop myself, I was talking back.

"You're the one who said I had more power than I initially believed—"

Before I knew it, he was over me. He pushed me backwards and slapped me across the face. Hard.

Face stinging red, and eyes stinging from tears, I cowered as much away from him as I could while pressed against the floor. Whatever rebellion was in me had ceased existence, at least for the moment. I was afraid. Very afraid. Fear traveled through every bit of my body, gripping my mind, my heart, my soul. I was so terrified I could barely breathe or see.

Beyond leaned back a bit, instead choosing to press his fingers around my neck, like he was choking me.

"I believe I've been giving you a bit more freedom than you deserve," he hissed. I trembled under his hold.

"In a way, I pity you. You don't understand my plans, you don't understand anything. And if I have my way, you won't ever understand. I offered to let you in. I offered to let you in because I believed you could be more useful and of more service to me. But you can't. No, you can't. Because you're much too stupid, much too weak to be of any help to me."

He laughed then. A laugh that was loud and unearthly, that reminded me of just how insane he was. Just how crazy he could be.

"But oh, even without helping me directly, you are. Indirectly. What's going on right now, what you so desperately ask about, wonder about—if it gives you pleasure, gives you satisfaction, I will tell you this much: it all has to do with you, the reason we left Chicago so soon. I hadn't been planning to leave for months. But oh no. You had to go and screw it up!"

He yelled the last few words, while tightening his hold on me. Any more tighter, and I would lose my ability to breathe completely.

"Oh, and let's not forget this little strength you mention. That I mentioned once." He laughed again, and pressed his knee to my collar bone. "Well, it's about as much a strength as it is a weakness. Would you like to know that too?"

I opened my mouth in an attempt to get more air. He must have taken this as a yes, however.

"Guess what? It's your lucky day. Because I'll tell you what your 'strength' is."

There was a pause. He was breathing heavily above me, eyes wide and flashing red. They moved slowly, from looking straight at my face, to looking at the spot just a little bit over my head.

"I can't kill you."

My mind reeled. What? It didn't make any sense, what he just said. Nothing made any sense. And with my loss of air, I could hardly think.

I must have looked confused though, because he laughed.

"Don't believe me? There's something you don't know about me, my dear. Something about my eyes, that always seem to tell the truth. And the truth is staring right at me: your death date. Something that won't ever change for you. No matter how much I wish it."

He released me then. I coughed, gasping, trying to get as much air into my system as possible. He didn't get off me, though. Instead he reached into his back pocket and drew out that switchblade again. Reaching out to my face, he drew a thin line from the corner of my eye, down to the bottom of my chin, all the way across my cheek.

I flinched in pain. He only smirked, happy with his work.

"Don't let that fool you into thinking you can escape me easier. Like I said: it's a weakness, too. I can't kill you… But that doesn't stop me from harming you to the point of near-death."

My body was completely still. He was only staring at me now, waiting for a reaction.

It was obvious that he was crazy… It's not possible at all that he could know my day of death, just by looking at me. And yet… Some weird part of me—probably the same sick part that was attracted to him—believed him completely.

I had one last question, though. One that refused to let go, and seemed important, whether what he was saying was a delusional lie or not.

"W-when is my death day, then?"

His smile grew so large, it made me cringe. He drew one finger out, and ran it along my face, picking up the blood that fell. He then placed the finger in his mouth and sucked on it. It didn't help my nausea, what he was doing. It didn't help my nausea either when he closed his eyes in pleasure, enjoying it as much as he could.

Then he said it. Beyond said it. The date. When I was doomed to die, or so it would seem. And I couldn't remember anything that happened afterwards, because I passed out completely. But I wouldn't forget that date. No—that looming, haunting date. The words said by Beyond that would stick in my mind for eternity.

"August twenty-second, this coming year."