"Finally."
I've found that I've gotten into the habit of talking to myself out loud, now that virtually no living human will be able to hear me. It certainly helps me keep better track of my thoughts. At the moment, though, I'm merely glad to be at my destination at last: Wammy's House. Getting to the UK from Japan had been no simple task. But, now that I'm here, I can finally enact the only plan I have. Maybe the only plan I could have… if Near won't help me, I'll be hard-pressed to find another person who can speak to ghosts who has massive international influence and an intellect equivalent to or even higher than my own. I might even be tempted to say that it would be impossible, even, to find another person who can speak to ghosts who has massive international influence and an intellect equivalent to or even higher than my own.
One massive problem, though. I learned pretty quickly that I couldn't interact with any objects in the living world, or the "Third Dimension," as I like to call it. I can't simply phase through walls, but I also can't touch them, either. My hands slip through objects when I try to grasp them, so I can't open doors. It feels like hitting an invisible wall in a video game; no way to get through, under, or over. Not unless somebody lets you past the barrier manually.
Nothing left to do but sit and wait for somebody to open the gate, so that I can wait for somebody to open the front door, so that I can wait for somebody to open the door to Near's room, so that I can wake them up. Simple enough.
I look to the East, at the subtle blue glow peering past the black trees in the distance. The Sun is just barely starting to rise. I guess it must be between five and five-thirty in the morning, which means that it'll be some time before anybody will be leaving. Fortunately for me, it's Saturday, which means that Roger will be leaving some time in the early morning to go to the bakery. I can't stop myself from staring at the horizon, perhaps a bit impatiently. I've never wished more for a watch than in this moment; though I suppose it wouldn't work, anyway.
I stand stationary for a while, and then I meander to the West a bit, and then I shuffle back to the East. Back, and forth, and back, and forth, I begin to pace in front of the gate. What else is there to do? I look down at my bare feet on the pavement, and muse at how I'll never have to wear shoes again, because now, I can't. Nobody can ever make me wear a single sock again, either. Very fortunate that I kept the clothes I died in, at least. Even more so that I wasn't killed in a manner that would have left any stains. Though dying of a heart attack wasn't what I'd consider pleasant, I'd take it over dying in some messy, violent way any day. Unless the other way to go was very interesting, or even cool, maybe then I'd consider it. Not to say I'd kill myself on purpose just because it was cool, or anything, but I can't say I wouldn't like to die on a rollercoaster. All that said, I don't think I ever got the opportunity to ride one when I was alive, did I… I dedicated so much of my time to my work. All of it, in fact. My life's work, and it took my life, in the end. Isn't that to be expected? At least, now, as a ghost, I'd never have to pay to get into an amusement park. Perhaps, even, I could ask Near if we could go to an amusement park before we catch Kira. I'm not sure what will happen to me when we do, perhaps at that point I'll… "pass on?" Is that it? It must be. I can't imagine why I'd continue to be tethered to this mortal coil when all of my business has been dealt with. Whatever the case may be, I can only hope to ride a rollercoaster in the interim…
I'm shaken from my thoughts when I hear the iron creak of the front gates opening, and turn to see Roger driving his hideous green car towards the entrance, stone-faced as ever. I always hated that car. Taking my opportunity as the gate opens, I slip past, and make my way up the hill towards the house itself.
"Go away."
"Oh, come on, now. Why would you say such a thing?"
"Because it's nine in the morning, and you're annoying."
"Aren't you supposed to be out of bed by eight?"
In response, Near groans and rolls over. I'm not making any headway with them, it seems. There isn't anywhere else for me to go, nothing else to do but linger until they get out of bed. And so linger I do. And so grumble they do in kind.
"Don't you have anything else to do?"
"Near, I'm dead."
"Ugh."
They burrowed deeper into their mound of blankets and pillows. Lemon Meringue, their service dog, who was sitting nearby, panted and sniffed at me. Evidently white-haired dogs can see ghosts as well as white-haired humans. Can all dogs see ghosts? I suppose I'll have to find more dogs to find out. Perhaps all of them can, or perhaps, like humans, only some can; not many people know this, but all humans with white hair can see ghosts (though not all humans who can see ghosts have white hair). I'm curious, too, if all animals can, or only some. Another thing to add to my little list of afterliving experiments.
I stand around for a while, thinking and swaying and occasionally, cautiously, running the tips of my fingers over Meringue's fur, careful not to come too close to clipping through her skin. I can't handle that sensation many more times. As the sun rises higher and higher in the sky, and the room grows hotter and more orange around me, I begin to wonder exactly how long Near intends to sleep for.
"Hey, Near," I say softly, intently.
No response.
I continue, "When do you plan on getting up?"
"Never."
"Oh, come on, you can't mean that."
"I can, and I do."
"Please, Near, it's important. I can help you solve the Kira case."
This gets their attention. They uncover their head just enough to glare at me through their bangs.
"What makes you think I'd want your help? He killed you, remember?"
Wow. Low blow.
I brush off that comment, reminding myself that they're probably just upset that I woke them up early. Probably.
"You look terrible, by the way."
I hadn't considered what I might look like since I died. It's not as though I can just look in a mirror. I look down at my hands. They look pale, sickly, almost green. My palms feel sweaty and cold. For the first time, I begin to wonder what my face looks like.
"Terrible how?" I finally manage to cough out.
"You look like you're about to throw up. It's gross."
"Could you please elaborate on that a bit? I'm curious."
They groaned again. "Can't you just go look in a mirror?"
"I must remind you once again, Near, that I am dead."
"Being dead isn't an excuse to be lazy."
Stubborn as always. But I must persist, if only to sate my own curiosity.
"Please, Near," I plead, hoping to appeal to their better nature, "if you won't get out of bed and help me catch Kira, at least do me this one favor."
That seems to have done the trick, though perhaps not in the way I was hoping. Near shoots straight upright, moving so fast their spine crackles like popcorn on their way up. Their eyes pierce into mine. Somewhere outside, a raven caws. I didn't realize that anybody else in the world could deliver an icy stare like that. Even Meringue seems perturbed; she won't stop staring at me, and panting.
"Where should I start? Your eyes are all bulgey, and glassy. You look like a dead fish. You're even wet enough to pass for one."
They'd started at a fairly normal speaking volume, but as they go on, their voice crescendos with their rising frustration.
"And you stink! Geez, man! You smell like a wet dog on a treadmill while it studies for the bar exam. Your hair looks like a rat king, by the way. It has clumps in it, somehow."
They're screaming at me, now, and I'm frozen in place.
"What is wrong with your hair? Do I need to kill you a hairbrush? And your skin, too, that's something else that's been bothering me! How do you look jaundiced!? You don't even have a liver! Are you dead or not!? Make up your mind! And if you are, keep being dead, and let me go back to sleep!"
With that little outburst, they yank their blanket over their head, creating an effective shield from the outside world. Meringue hops onto the bed and curls up beside Near, and rests her head somewhere on their cloaked and distorted form. She still won't stop staring at me. No sooner nor later than one could have expected, Mello burst into the room, throwing the door open with such force that it struck the adjacent wall, and audibly so.
"Shut! The! Fuck! UP! Sleeping Beauty!"
Meringue starts barking so ferociously I think she might actually attack them.
"I don't know who or what the Hell you're yellin' at in here, but you need to cut that shit out! You're making a fuckin' racket! Go the fuck back to sleep before I pummel you into, uh… de-consciousness!"
I begin making my way toward the open door, while I have a rare opening. Who knows how much longer it'll be until someone else enters or leaves this room? I don't exactly want to stay here and watch Near sleep, they're done enough with me as it is.
"That'll be four pounds for the swear jar," they reply in a much more resigned tone than I would expect. Maybe that tantrum took it all out of them.
"Fuck off!" Mello barks back.
"Five pounds," Near says, this time with more fire in their voice, before they fling a pillow clear across the room. It narrowly misses my chest (and thank goodness for that, I never want to become acquainted with the feeling of cotton stuffing in my lungs) and strikes Mello in the face. It's at this moment that I choose to dip myself out of the room, cleanly and swiftly, like a papercut. I hear Roger shouting distantly from somewhere down the hall at Mello, telling her to leave Near alone. I hastily make my way down the opposite hallway. This has all been enough excitement for now, I think.