Blood and Sugar

PART 4

Chapter XX: The Family Blackthorne

We approached the large, wooden double doors of my parents' house. I hesitated; should I knock? Or just let myself in?

"I have to warn you," I said. "My mother has Alzheimer's. She's sort of trapped in a perpetual world where I'm eighteen."

"Well that should be interesting," he chortled.

"Not really," I replied.

I took a deep breath and opened the door.

My old home was pretty similar to how I left it. Antiques everywhere. I stepped through the entryway. I found my mother sitting on the couch, in her bathrobe. She hadn't aged well; her eyes were lined with deep, purple circles, and her face was covered with lines and wrinkles. Her pin-straight black had lines of gray weaved through it, and it was a tangled, gnarled mess. She was pure Chinese blood.

"It's about time you came home," she snapped. "You've been gone for days."

"It's been about four years, actually," I corrected. "I'm twenty-five."

"Always making up stories," she quipped. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"This is my husband," I explained. "Mihael."

"So you were off getting married," she hissed. "Wait till your father hears about this. What would Mitch say?"

"Mitch is dead, mother," I said. "Where is dad, anyway?"

"You shut your little mouth. Don't talk about your brother that way!" she yelled. "Your father is in his office."

I stepped through the long hallway, not stopping to admire all the fancy antiques and paintings. I leaned into the last door on the right. Indeed, my father was sitting at his desk, reading through some papers. just like I remembered. His curly red hair was neat and trimmed. He hadn't really aged; just a few lines here and there. I leaned in the doorway, not knowing what to say. Mihael stood cautiously behind me, looking at the extravagant niceties my parents had accumulated. Suddenly, two blue eyes burned a hole in me.

"Morgan?" came his deep voice. He eyeballed me over his glasses.

"Hi," was all I managed to say.

"Come in," he said, still surprised. I was also surprised. He never invited me in, he usually told me to go away. I took a seat in a cushy chair near his desk.

"You can come in too," he gestured at Mihael. Mihael nervously took a seat next to me.

"It's been years," my father said. "What's been going on?"

"I don't even know where to begin," I said, surprised at his interest.

"Well, try your best," he said gently.

I proceeded to tell him everything. The death of L, my encounters with Kira, being married, and now my plan to become pregnant. Throughout the conversation, his face fell lower and lower, and eventually his face was buried in his hands.

"I know you don't believe a word of this," I added.

"No," he contradicted. "That's too horrible of a story to make up."

"I'm sorry," I said, not knowing what else to say.

"So that young man you were dating...killed by Kira...who assaulted you..." he grunted. "Dear god."

I bit my lip anxiously.

"Morgan," he began. "I know your mother and I were not the most observant parents in the world in regards to you, but I can't believe, that as a father, I could allow this to happen."

"It's not your fault," I said.

"Yes it is," he said grievously, and bowed his head.

"Dad," I said slowly. "I wasn't exactly the easiest child to raise." I laughed inwardly.

I opened the ancient, partially rusted doorknob to my childhood bedroom. It hadn't been touched in the years I had been gone...or at least that's how it appeared at first. I caught a mild scent of fabric softener. It radiated from my sheets and all the old clothes in my closet. Somebody had been washing my clothes and bedsheets, probably on a regular basis. Something large caught the corner of my eye; my old harp. It had been dusted...I approached it, and plucked one string. A perfect C rang through the air. It was even tuned. Someone was very obsessive about my room.

The dying sunlight illuminated my green walls with a yellowed glow. My bed was tucked away in the corner like it had always been, its black sheets and oriental-looking bedspread perfectly made up. The pale beige carpet was still dotted with drops of oil paint from old paintings, which were tucked away in the opposite corner to my bed, dusted and neatly stacked. My desk was the same lightly messy way it was, stacks of journals and sketchbooks piled all over. The candles there remained unlit. Black curtains shielded my window. I certainly had an odd taste in colour as a teenager.

I scanned through the books in my black bookcase. Catcher in the Rye, Canterbury Tales, Edgar Allen Poe, and Great Gatsby were just a few. I'd read all of them at least twice. I took the Great Gatsby off the shelf, stroking the leather-bound cover lightly with my fingertips. I opened it the last page and recited the last line softly to myself.

"And so we beat on, boats against the current, born ceaselessly into the past..."

"I was never much of a book person," came the familiar voice behind me. I turned to see Mihael standing behind me, sort of nervous, like he didn't quite belong there. He did look strange in the scene, but he did belong there, in my opinion.

"I can barely read," he added.

I smiled sweetly. "I loved books. Everybody in my school thought I was weird for it."

"Morgan," he began hesitantly. "I know this sounds weird...but...could you read to me?"

We laid down the bed together. I snuggled myself under his arm and rested my head on his shoulder. I flipped the book to page one.

"In my younger and more vulnerable years," I read. "My father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since."

I can feel you all around me, thickening the air I'm breathing...

The halls of Whammy's house felt cold and hollow at night, as though as soon as the sun had set, the unforgiving horizon drank up all the light and the warmth. It was going 2 AM, and all the doors were shut, silent, all but one. Light leaked through the cracks, streaks of yellow brilliance against the sheets of black. I pressed my ear gently to the door, and I heard the soft thump of music vibrating against my ear. I knew whose door this was; it belonged to Mello, a young, rebellious, and somewhat angry teenage orphan. My fingers instinctively clasped the shiny brass handle. Despite the fact that in reality it was freezing cold, heat flamed into my skin, burning across my palms and down my digits to my fingertips. Slowly I applied pressure to the handle, turning it down. I pushed open the door, and stepped through a portal of warmth and light. As I shut the door behind me, I felt luminescent, alive.

He stared at me, golden-brown eyes wide and focused at me. He sat at the end of his bed, hands loosely folded in his lap. A small stereo emitted a smooth, but still rough thump of some nondescript rock music.

"Glad to see I'm not the only one who can't sleep in this place," I said softly. In a drowsy fog, I approached him like he was magnetic. I couldn't seem to feel my legs. It felt more like I was floating. I sat next to him, my eyes half-closed, swaying softly to the music. Somehow, I fell backwards, and curled up on his bed, falling asleep. I felt numb as sleep began taking me away; I couldn't even feel light grazing of fingers down my arm, or warm breath on my hair...

You've been given love, you have to trust it...

I stared blankly at the words on the page. They all seemed to be running together. I just recited what I saw. Mihael stared intently at the print, following my words, capturing the meaning of the story.

"They were careless people, Tom and Daisy," I read. "They smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made…"

I put the book down and rested it on my lap. My throat throbbed from talking so much. He stared at me, silently inquiring as to why I had stopped reading. My fingertips grasped the side of his face, pulling him down onto me into a smoldering, capturing kiss. I nibbled his lip lightly, tasting his tongue with mine. When I finally let him go, his eyes were glazed over in a breathless trance, looking through a window.

"I love you," I said quietly. "But I can't read anymore, my throat hurts."

"Oh," he breathed.

"If you want," I offered. "I can play you something on my harp."

"Okay," he said, still glassed over.

"I must warn you though," I said, lifting my self reluctantly from the soft mattress and towards the harp. "I haven't played in a long time, and it's going to suck."

I sat down in the stool perched behind the harp. I put the large instrument in D major, sharpening my f's and c's. I balanced it on my shoulder, and instinctively my fingers found the beginning notes to the Pachebel Canon in D major. Music flowed from my fingers, but not without mistakes, of course. But I was surprised at how well I managed to play it from memory. After I struck the last chord, I let it ring for a moment, and then lifted the harp from my shoulder and balanced it on its foot.

"How was it?" I asked.

"Awesome," he said. "You look like a fucking angel playing that thing. It was torture watching you play that, with the moon all shining around you."

My face pinkened a little bit. "Thank you."

I laid down next to him, setting the book lightly on the floor, and curled up next to him, closing my eyes. I slipped in and out of sleep, and finally sank into it for a more long term slumber.

4 months later

I stared at the small bump on my stomach with a contented sigh. It was a weird feeling, being pregnant. I never saw myself as a mother, but I was happy nonetheless. But inside, I had a sort of dreadful feeling. I sensed some sort of danger, although things had been calm. I was alone in the beach house, now gazing at my harp that I had relocated from my childhood home. I played regularly at this point, often just making up songs to go with the sound of crashing waves, songs I played only once. The sky was a deep, dark blue, just after sunset, and sprinkled with glittering beads of light. It was rather chilly outside, it was November. But the heat was turned up and it embraced me like an invisible blanket.

But suddenly, the familiar feeling of dread racked my mind. Mihael had gone into town to do some errands, so I had to fend for myself. And then- a dark figure appeared in the window. I recognized it; it was not human. It was a shinigami, the same one I had seen the day Raito had died.

"Long time, no see," the creature said, stalking through the window into the light. His white skin still glowed pale and sickly. The tall, lanky monster was unchanged.

"Haven't you made a life for yourself here?" he said, in sort of vicious tone. "And I see we're expecting. Isn't that sweet?"

"What do you want?" I asked defiantly.

"The blonde kid has a debt that is long overdue," he hissed.

"What debt?" I asked, confused.

"The necklace," he said. His alabaster finger touched the skin on my chest lightly, and then played with the silver heart necklace. I shuddered at the cold touch.

"I want it," he said hungrily.

"It's mine," I said firmly.

"Actually, little girl," he hissed. "It's not. It once belonged to a shinigami who was looking for it, but that shinigami has died, lazy bastard. A new shinigami needs it. An old friend of yours."

"What?" I questioned.

"You'll see soon enough," he chuckled. "Sooner if you just hand it over."

"No," I answered.

"Don't make me take it from you," he warned.

I gripped the pendant tightly in my hand. I thumbed the smooth silver lightly. It still felt cool, despite being enclosed in the warmth of my hand.

"I can't give this to you, Ryuk," I said.

"You are bold," he chortled. "I will give you that. But what you need to understand is, that the shinigami world is changing. I can't say that I like it, but I am in no position to question. This new shinigami has taken all the power from the king. In return to spare his life, the new shinigami wanted claim as king, but the king has refused...and now the old man is bound, living out what little lifespan he has left in prison, no access to a deathnote."

"Who is this new shinigami?" I asked.

"Raito Yagami," he said with a hiss.

I froze in my spot, gnawing feverishly at my lip.

"I will have his wrath, then," I said defiantly. "Give me six months, Ryuk."

"You dare to bargain with a shinigami, without possession of a deathnote?" he chuckled.

"No," I said, squinting my eyes. "I'm telling a shingami what I am going to do."

"You are brash, girl," he said, surprised.

"Call me what you want," I said through clenched teeth. "You will wait six months."

"I like you," he laughed. "Fine. New shinigami have a year's lifespan to start with, he can wait. I assume you want me to wait so you don't endanger your child?"

"That's right." I replied.

"Very well," he laughed. "I will see you then."

I watched him fly into the moonlight, his laughing echoing through the night.