"Keep your fingers steady," the Fiend glanced up towards the Boy as he encased the Boy's right hand in bandages. The Boy wished he could oblige, but the endeavor failed as trembles wracked through his body.
He wanted to apologize and beg for forgiveness, but the Fiend's anger already escalated past it's peak once that hour; the Boy didn't want to remind him. Every day, he apologized the Fiend. The Fiend would just watch him with cool eyes until tears poured down the Boy's cheeks. He had heard of a sickness once, where a captive falls in love with his captor, although he wasn't sure where he heard it. Love wasn't the word to describe how the Boy felt towards Fiend, though. Maybe respect-or fear. But he always felt the need to apologize.
The Fiend finished wrapping the Boy's broken fingers, each which he snapped only minutes before. "You didn't touch your food," the Fiend noted. "Was it not good enough for you?"
"No, I lost my appetite," the Boy muttered, examining the Fiend's careful bandaging.
The Fiend's first aid skills progressively increased. Originally, when he used to singe the Boy with his cigarette, he would drench a towel with alcohol and drip it into the open wound. If the Boy even winced, the Fiend would strike him. However, he purchased a new disinfectant, which bubbled and fizzed in the gashes and burns. He would gently apply it to the Boy's wound. It barely added to the pain.
The Fiend stood up and plucked the full plate from the ground. "Well, where did it go?"
"What?"
Suddenly, the Fiend whacked the Boy's face with the plate, smashing the glass against his cheek bones. Food scattered across his lap. "Eat it."
The Boy trembled, reaching his good hand towards the mush on his knee. He brought it up to his mouth, but as soon as it past his lips, he felt like gagging. He shuddered, but swallowed it, maintaining a composed expression. The Fiend despised when the Boy revealed any hint of emotions. And if the Fiend ever felt any himself, the Boy never noticed. And the Boy noticed everything.
He swallowed another handful, trying his best to keep the food in his esophagus. His stomach roared with displeasure, bubbling and churning. The Boy just took one more bite. "I'm sorry," he muttered as he swallowed. The Fiend didn't respond.
When the Boy finished the scraps surrounding him, the Fiend placed the ever-growing manilla envelope on the Boy's lap. The Kira case became the only window the Boy had to the outside world. After about six months of following it, he knew everything there was to know about Kira. All except his identity. A pang shivered through his heart as he thought about it.
As Kira's power increased, the list of suspects narrowed, but not by much. There were television shows solely dedicated to his work, and hundreds upon hundreds of people came forward, claiming they were Kira. But none of them were; none of them could prove it. Newscasters and journalists constantly debated whether Kira was just or just a psychopath. Some even died because of their claims. Yet, Kira's grip on the world only tightened. Several countries, including the United States, already gave in and promised to cease their hunt for Kira. It seemed he was winning.
But the Fiend didn't believe it was true. In fact, he recently obtained a list of names from the Japanese Police Force and claimed that someone either on the list, or closely related, was Kira. The Boy though it was a preposterous claim, but never said anything. He just studied the force until his eyes burned. The Fiend seemed determined, but he just wanted proof. So, the Boy searched for it, but never found much. Besides, it was nice to look at pictures of other people. Bright eyed, round faced, happy people.
The Boy had forgotten joy.
When the Fiend finally left him alone, the Boy gave into the sensation tearing at his stomach. He ran to the bathroom, a small room with a toilet, a sink with only hot water, and a small shower with no curtain. His collapsed to his knees and threw up into the bowl, gripping the metal seats. The pain subsided and he flushed his meal for that day down. He leaned his head against the sink, panting. Suddenly, another wave ruptured and he lost more of his dinner. His body trembled and he waited for a few minutes.
When he was sure he was finished being sick, he wobbled back to his cot and curled under the thin, tattered sheet. He stared at the Kira Case file for a few minutes and opened it up, again. The Fiend, or "L," recently broadcasted a "live" event where a fake of the already imposter L appeared on television and claimed he was after Kira. He broadcasted it in different areas of the world at different times. It was a brilliant plan, and it only took the Boy a few days to come up with. He started in Asia, because it's where most of Kira's victims were. The fake finally suffered from a heart attack when the event was shown in the Kanto region of Japan. And, although the Boy couldn't place his finger on where exactly the Fiend was holding him, he knew that they were located in Japan.
Kira was close by. The idea almost comforted the Boy.
He read over the case one last time before his eyes finally grew too weary to see. He settled his cheek against his pillow, inviting sleep's comforting arms.
And just like that, he was running across an open field. Tall grass encased him in a jungle of flowers and a blue canopy. The meadow extended as far as he could see. He kept running, unsure where this energy erupted from. Something snapped behind him. He stumbled a bit and glanced back, expecting to see more grass. Instead, crimson waves licked at the grass. He watched, frozen, as the current picked up and the ocean of red inched towards him. In the distance, a boat with tattered sails rose along the horizon.
Somehow, the Boy knew who was on that boat. Yes, the apparition with the tangled black hair and baggy eyes, who always appeared in his dreams, was steering it. The Boy trembled and took a step back. A huge, crimson wall suddenly towered over the boat and swallowed whole. The Boy cried out and turned around, wanting to escape the horror. Instead, he came face to face with the thin apparition. The Boy tried to speak, but the apparition placed a finger on his lips.
"I'm sorry," the apparition muttered.
The Boy woke up in a sweat. His heart pounded in his chest, but he had grown familiar with the feeling of panic. Nightmares normally plagued him, but he enjoyed them much more than reality. At least in his dreams, he saw a world beyond these white walls. A world he didn't recognize, yet knew so well. And the apparition, as horrifying as he was, reminded him of someone he was once close to.
The words the apparition spoke echoed through the Boy's skull as he stood up and stumbled to the bathroom. Just as the Boy went to wash his hands, his stomach kicked again and he fell to his knees to throw up once more.
"What's wrong with me?" he muttered, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
The sour taste lingered on his tongue, even after he washed his mouth out. He made his way back to the cot, dragging his good hand against the wall. His fingers traced dried blood, his own blood. Each splatter told a different story, reminded him of a different memory.
One of his first memories, since all his others were obliterated, was when the Fiend had smashed his head into the wall and knocked the Boy unconscious. He awoke a day later, dazed and agitated. There was this deep frustration buried within him, not just because of the pain, but something the Boy feared far more. Unsure of who he was before he entered that room, ideas of his past life bombarded him. He played fabricated scenarios over in his head for how exactly he got there. Maybe he was a genius and the Fiend spotted him. Maybe he was once someone great, someone who was missed. Or maybe he and the Fiend were once an alliance. The latter, at the time, frightened him the most.
Now, he would give anything just to remember something. Even if that profound, horrifying desire he felt that day after waking up meant he was once a monster, at least he would know. Anything was better than only knowing what the Fiend provided.
His stomach ached from hunger, yet the thought of food made him nauseous. He glanced towards the metal sealed door, wishing he could just catch a glimpse of what the room outside looked like. But the Fiend would never allow that. Of course he wouldn't.
He wasn't sure how long he was staring at it before a click from the other side echoed into the room. He peered at the crack, where a small streak of light cascaded down. A shadow covered it, then the door opened. The Fiend slipped into the room, carrying a plate full of mush. The Boy never had a clue what the Fiend was feeding him, but he'd grown accustomed to the bitter taste.
"How did you sleep?"
It was a rhetorical question. A social necessity, if the Boy recalled right. The Fiend didn't care how he slept, as long as he was alive and pursuing Kira. The Boy didn't respond, and that was how the Fiend liked it.
The Fiend glanced down at the Boy's bandaged hand, but didn't utter a word about it. Instead, his cold eyes flicked back up to the Boy's own and he placed the plate in front of him. The Boy wanted to speak, to ask a question, to scream, anything to make the Fiend stay for just a few more minutes of company, but those few minutes would mean a severe beating. The company wasn't worth it.
Without another word, the Fiend left the Boy alone again. As always, a gnawing feeling of despair and relief washed over him all at once. His right hand pulsed with pain, but he didn't mind. He'd grown accustomed to the bruises, burns, and gashes. He touched his bandage, wincing as he felt his crooked index finger. "I'm sorry," he found himself mumbling.