Lyrics: Linkin Park, Papercut
Why does it feel like night today?
Something in here's not right today.
I stop the tapping of my fingers on the wooden table and look around. Familiar faces look back at me, talking away, laughing on their seats in the mensa of the Black Order's new headquarter. Seems like, as often, they integrated me into their discussions and conversations. But right now, it's like the world has been turned upside down and dark water fills my ears and I can't hear a thing. Something clutches at my chest and I try to swallow the growing feeling of it that I can't describe yet and that's flowing icily through my veins.
Why am I so uptight today?
Paranoia's all I got left
I don't know what stressed me first
Or how the pressure was fed
Without warning, I stand up. The sounds, the noise come back.
'Lavi? Where are you going?'
It's Lee Lenalee asking, the slender yet beautiful, long-legged Chinese girl who was the first to welcome and accept me into the ranks of the Akuma slaying people known as Exorcists. Or known as black guardian angels. Or dogs of the Vatican. Or fearsome, black-clad monsters. Or plain murderers. But there were countless names out there that people called them, countless names that this girl didn't need to know. Didn't need to know that I knew. My hand scratches the back of my head lazily as I answer her, slightly evadingly, as so often.
'Naa, jus' saving me some books from the library, ye know. Otherwise, Jiji's gonna gimme some good working-over fer dodging work.'
At the last words, I give the twinkle-toed girl a conniving smile and she smiles back and touches my arm lightly.
'Don't fall asleep again in the library', she tells me, amused though a tad worried. She always worries about everyone. It's a nice trait of hers that contributes to her lovely person. At times, it's just pretty annoying.
'Won't do. See ye later, Lenalee.'
At the friendly cries of Allen and Krory, I wave my hand at them, too, walking out of the spacious mensa with arms folded behind my head, looking not too eager to supposedly meeting my master.
But I know just what it feels like
To have a voice in the back of my head
The headquarter is so big that sometimes you can walk for half an hour without setting eyes on anyone, no Finders, no researchers, no employees, no other Exorcists. When I was lucky, the cold stone corridors would be devoid of any sound aside the crackle of flames illuminating them and a low breeze of chilly wind. Right now, I was lucky. Shadows flickering over the ground, my steps echoe hollowly from the darkish walls. And the growing feeling I couldn't explain amongst the others minutes before, now becomes crystal-clear and frightingly tangible. It's the presence of something alive, something so close to me it takes the space I need to breathe, too close for me to feel comfortable, too close as to feel safe.
And when I'm honest with myself, I know that this something is really someone.
Like a face that I hold inside
A face that awakes when I close my eyes
A face watches every time I lie
A face that laughs every time I fall
(And watches everything)
I inhale deeply and open my eyes. When did I close them, anyway? It doesn't matter because I'm standing in the middle of the library. More precisely, the oldest part where the most withered, most treasured, rarest books and scrolls of this country are stored. Also, it's the wing only a few selected people are allowed access to. Goes without saying, since I'm the Bookman's apprentice, I am one of those exceptions, as well. But it's not some old script I'm here for whilst the moon shines through the high gothic windows, plunging everything into a pale, otherworldly light. Dead light, so to speak. The moon might be beautiful to some people, might even be worth a look by me, by my current persona, but of course I know that the moon is only visible because it reflects the sun's rays, using that star's light to present its own dead surface to this dark, dead world. How could that be anything romantic, let alone beautiful?
In the middle of the room, I sit down cross-legged, inhale again, and this time I close my eyes fully conscious, shutting out my surroundings and shutting in myself behind the bars of my eyelids.
And I can hear him whisper.
His words are my words, and yet they are strange, unfamiliar words to me.
They are now because I must try my best to distinguish myself from the one whispering. At least in fron of others.
Because he still lurks under the surface, crawls under my skin and waits for me to get weak.
I clench the hands resting on my knees to fists.
It's him whispering sweetly facile lies into my thoughts effortlessly.
Who taunts me whenever I feel my chest getting a little heavier at a new lie. Although, naturally, I'm used to lying for as long as I can remember. And although it didn't bother me before. Never.
It's him who's laughing whenever I say too much, feel too much.
So I know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the face inside is hearing me
Right beneath my skin
Lurking, watching with my eyes in order to catch the right moment when I'm off guard. Listening to what the others confide to me, searching for a crack in my mask. And I know the cracks are there. It's making me angry, this grown window of vulnerability, this whole fighting myself. I should know better. I do know better. Still, it sometimes feels as if it's not me alone in this body everyone calls 'Lavi' now. As if the part of me, or more precisely, the numerous shards this living, breathing part consists of, is too different than to be accepted by my current personality. And whenever I close my eyes, I'm not so sure wether all these shards make me who I am, or wether my self has broken in smithereens many moons before and these shards are just the imperfect, inchoate remains of who I was, once, a long time ago.
It's like I'm paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the face inside is right beneath my skin
Trying to argue with the persona inside of me who could call himself 'Deak' or 47 different names altogether, has never ended the fight but I try, nonetheless. It's something only 'Lavi' would do, and I'm aware of the contradictions the growing sympathy of my current alias creates. It's not like 'me' against 'Deak', because I AM Deak. And all the other 47 personalities beside him. It's not like I can't remember being them, impersonating them; it's not like I want to forget what they, what I experienced. It's not like I could, anyway. All the gruesome experiences throughout my life made me who I am now. Though forgetting them all would definitely make being friendly, easy-going, cheeky 'Lavi' a whole lot easier, a whole lot more bearable.
So in the end, I'm just arguing with myself when I ask questions into the enchained, locked away dark of my mind. And it's just myself answering from behind one of the numerous doors where all the memories of the respective persona are kept. Kept safe and barred. Yet, the voice answering at the moment comes from behind a door which is left ajar. I don't remember exactly when the door opened. Or wether it was me who openend it or Deak himself. Which, I realise, wouldn't really make a difference.
My right eye starts to hurt and my fingernails dig into the palms of my hands.
'Hey Lavi', says the voice from the shadows behind the barely opened door. The locks and bars and iron chains hang uselessly in front of it.
'Don't call me that', I reply inwardly.
'Why not? It's what you're called for the time being, isn't it?'
'You know that's not my true name. That it's not your true name, Deak.'
The answer comes seemingly indifferent, he still doesn't reveal himself but stays behind his door.
'Our true name is something we discarded long, long ago. It contains no meaning anymore, never really has. I bet you can't even remember it.'
I don't react to his provocation. But he is wrong, I do remember. I remember everything. So he gets more aggressive. And I understand his aggressiveness, his accusations, understand why he has to act this way because it's just like I would secretly react, it's just what I keep asking myself over and over again. Without anyone noticing my inner conflict. Without anyone noticing how much, at times, the disremption hurts.
'You are so different, why would I call you anything other than the strange, incomprehensible person you play right now? You are no longer me, no longer feel only like me. Sometimes, you feel things you can't explain, I can't explain because I never experienced them before! And I've never wanted to. How can you just accept how much that hurts without switching those damned emotions off? Why did you start letting them affect you, letting them touch you, in the first place? It hurts!'
I know I've got a face in me
Points out all my mistakes to me
In the depths of my abstruse, obscure mind, my feet have taken me to the slightly opened door with the name 'Deak' on it. My hands rest on the thick wood and iron bars which feel cold and firm. Not firm enough, though, obviously. It doesn't bother me in this instant, as I step aside and stand in the gap filled with shadows from behind the door, from everywhere. My green left eye scans the duskiness and I sense him staring back. Feel his presense so close. Can feel his hatred, my hatred, my anger that I'd rather not reveal to anyone or, even better, not undergo at all. But it's too late. I tried to push all the confusion and anger away and thus only admitted to experiencing them. The contrast to my former self couldn't have been starker. The shock not deeper. The pain not more frightening.
And I step into his room.
You've got a face on the inside too and
Your paranoia's probably worse
I don't know what set me off first
But I know what I can't stand
Everybody acts like the fact of the matter is
I can't add up to what you can but
A hard slap into my face, spinning the shadows around until my mind's obscurity dissolves into a pale, dead light – I've opened my eye in shock to the incipient burning pain – and I'm still on the cold stone ground of the secret library but now forced on my ellbows due to the sudden blow's force.
Jiji's standing right in front of me, his black Exorcist's clothes together with his high ponytail make his silhouette against the moonlight look like that of a djinn. His eyes are narrowed to slits, as often, and he stares down at me with this inscrutable, piercing, knowing gaze of his. Hands covered by the long sleeves of his uniform – I've often wondered how many different uniforms he must've worn throughout his long life but he never told me – he speaks.
'Get up, Lavi. We have work to do.'
For a moment I'm tempted to give a retort and talk back to him, but then I remember that no-one beside us is present here and that there is no need to play 'Lavi' anymore than needed. So I only nod and get up, just as he's told me. It's easier to be with the one person who knows who you are not, than being with people who think know who you ought to be.
My limbs are a tad numb and I wipe off the dust from my trousers and shirt before turning back to Jiji who hasn't moved an inch. His robes hide his weapons, scrolls, quills and old yet unbelievably acurate hands. He's never raised his hand against me without reason, though. So I'm not afraid of him, albeit the others sometimes are since he keeps silent and observant most of the time (like the Bookman should), yet can seem quite violent at times, as if an old volcano suddenly erupts. Still, I'm not afraid of him. He's the one constant – besides the wars and human idiocy – that always accompanied me. He's the one person who doesn't care about who I'm not, what I'm not, because we are the same, in some way.
'What's the matter, Old Man?', I ask, slightly irritated by his stare. Usually, he just tells me to get my workload done and reminds me, Lavi, of not accidentally leaking too much information about the Bookman tribe or knowledge I'm not supposed to share with anyone. Sometimes, Lavi just gets carried away...
Jiji notices the sign of annoyance, of course, but ignores it.
'You are not to wander off for the sake of letting your guard down', he replies, and I can tell he's serious about it. Neither his posture nor his voice's volume change, but still, I can tell.
'Alright, alright', I respond and turn towards the library's exit behind all the dark, fully stacked bookshelves worth a fortune for insiders. After a few steps, I feel a hand on my back and look to see Jiji walking to my left.
'Don't let yourself be confused by what you experience at this stage', he urges me.
Suddenly, he looks just a little older than usually, as he continues, his hand still resting strong and tutelar right below my shoulders.
'It will stop. Most Bookmen, at some point, undergo this confusing diremption. Only remember that it will stop if you can handle it. But you have to stop it yourself, soon, Junior. Otherwise, becoming the Bookman will kill you. No matter your abilites.'
Everybody has a face that they hold inside
A face that awakes when I close my eyes
A face watches every time they lie
A face that laughs every time they fall
(And watches everything)
So you know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the face inside is watching you too
Right inside your skin
My heart hammers against my ribcage, the heart which, lately, I often wish I wouldn't feel at all, wouldn't possess, wouldn't have to deal with. Jiji's hand vanishes, my back feels cold and I can hear him whispering – whispering of truths I've already known for such a long time, whispering of fears, doubts, hope. Hope? I hear myself chuckling as we walk down the corridors of the Black Order's headquarter, heading for our shared room.
'What's the matter?', Jiji asks when I close the door behind us, using exactly my words from the library, maybe just to mock me a little. He has his own sense of humour.
'Nothing important', I answer. 'I was only reminded of Lavi's strange processing of perception. It's so illogical sometimes that it feels like going crazy. But the thought of going crazy for the sake of some humans is just madness itself. I found that quite amusing.'
Jiji looks at me and remains silent.
After hours of working through newspapers, books and diaries, Jiji finally allows himself and me to rest for a few hours. Through the high gothic windows of our room, dawn announces itself but to me it feels like another night, like dusk and the light seems so wrong that I rub my eyes in order to assure myself I'm not yet dreaming. Grateful for the break, I let myself fall onto my bed. My thoughts can't seem to calm down, though, they are still rushing, storming through my mind like a tempest. And I can hear the numerous doors with their iron bars and chains rattle, and I can feel him waiting behind the slightly opened door that's more like a dungeon to him and everything else I have to distance myself from, for the time being.
'Get to sleep now, Junior', I hear Jiji saying in the twilight filled room, and I close my eyes.
'Don't forget who you are not. That is what defines you. That is the only certainty you need to keep yourself together.'
And whilst drifting off into yet another dream, nightmare, memory which I hopefully won't remember in a few hours, I wonder if I will ever be able to forget anything. My right eye aches ever so slightlyat that thought and I'm not sure wether that would help me or actually strip me of the one ability that saved me until today.
Deak doesn't know either.
It's like I'm paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the face inside is right beneath my skin
The face inside is right beneath your skin
The sun goes down
I feel the light betray me
The sun goes down
I feel the light betray me
It's like I'm paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the face inside is right beneath my skin