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Chapter 3
"A, a shi—" Taro could hardly believe the being before him: hunched over from the bus that was too small to house him; his arms abnormally long for his stature, almost grazing the ground; his face, almost too horrific to describe – completely white with large, round yellow eyes with red pupils; a smile that took up most of his face, almost The Joker-like with its thick red outline. This had to be the shinigami of the note.
The shinigami glanced outside the window, "The other humans are coming back" he told Taro, "Don't worry; they won't be able to see me."
And just as the shinigami had said, the giggle of girls made their way in, giggles replaced with solemn whispers among them. As they shuffled back into their seats, the last one paused and bent over, picking up Taro's cell phone.
"Is this yours?" she extended her arm with the squeaking phone in her hand.
Still stunned by the shinigami, Taro could only manage a nod. With little movement in his seat, he simply lifted the phone to his right ear. Talking over the inquisitive Light, Taro answered all his questions with two words: "It worked," and snapped his phone close.
For the rest of the journey, Taro sat fixated, and stared out straight ahead to the heads of the girls, his head plagued that the note had worked. What does this mean? What should he do? Does this mean I'm a… murderer? His face went a flushed into a whitish green, noticed by one girl out the corner of her eye, who sat perpendicular to the bus bench's backrest.
"Hey? Are you okay?" she turned completely, leaning her chin on the tattered red leather benches. Taro looked like he was about to throw up.
"The lady having a heart attack like that right there…" the middle girl commented, "I don't think any of us can forget that; an innocent lady dead."
"Just shows how cruel the world is…" the last girl added.
They all shook their heads in sympathy, and turned back to their conversation.
Was that cruel? Am I a torturer? Taro chose this woman to put her out of misery, not into it. He watched her everyday struggle to live life, barely able to get food or a home - forced to watch consumerism blared in her face, taunting her poor existence On one occasion Taro spoke to his fellow frequent passenger, listening to tales of her life. Her voice was limp, conveying no confidence or self-worth. She told Taro of the life-long hardship that she endure, and that her last comfort is that (even at her ripened age) that there's a chance she may "make it" in the world. Taro pitied her optimistic ignorance; little did she know of how the system truly works - her dream would never be fulfilled. She wasn't a human; she lived a half-life, begging to those who would never help.
Did he need to feel bad about this? Should he feel like a criminal? The medical technicians will conclude that she died of natural causes, so I didn't kill her; I'm not a criminal, I just played a part in her death.
Does this make me God? Isn't "He" the only one who should play a part in people's death? So if I'm God in some sense, can I choose who is worthy of being on this earth?
As he asked himself that final question, the bus had stopped; Taro glanced out the window as he always did. It was like the heavens were giving him an answer, he knew what he had to do with the power of the Death Note.
Taro walked into his apartment building's foyer confidently; no longer bother by the shinigami's presence floating around him. He cheerfully whistled as he awaited the arrival of the elevator. Being late afternoon on a weekday, the elevator got filled quickly by business-types in stuffy suits, forcing Taro to be shoved into the corner. But today he was not bothered (like he usually was) by the uncomfortable position, and did not curse their existence in his usual under-breath mutterings.
The elevator pinged; the second floor. He bumped passed the suits intentionally, feeling their burning gazes follow his head as he turned left out the elevator. The corner of Taro's mouth lifted into a smirk. Judge all you want, he telepathically told them, but I hold your lives in the palm of my hands.
Taro walked with a spring in his step as light flood onto him through the wall-length windows. He finally found an answer to the question in the bus: yes, he could choose who was worthy enough of living in this world; with confidence, Taro believed there was no better judge than himself. It would be disrespectful of the Death Note's power if he didn't quench the justice it thirsts for.
He turned left down a new corridor and it got progressively colder as they made their way down. Ryuk continued to haunt Taro; seeing his cheery mood brought on another round of laughter. They stopped at the end of a dingy corridor to a door. "You seem chuffed with yourself – what are you using the Death Note for?"
After searching for his keys in his back pack, he responded with a smile, "You'll see," and left Ryuk hanging with mystery.
"I'm back," he announced, hanging his keys on the hook. He threw his backpack on a stool and fixed himself a bowl of cereal, swivelling as he thought, occasionally putting a spoonful in his mouth.
A name and a face… that's what the Death Note needs. He knew all the faces of those he despised, but their names would be a challenge. Chewing slowly on his cereal, Taro tried to find a way to get these names inconspicuously.
His aunt emerged from her room in a flowing floor-length dress and a cardigan. "Cereal at this time of day?" his aunt remarked as she made her way to the fridge. Opening it and scanning its contents, she asked flatly, "Did you get the mail?"
His spoon crashed against the ceramic bowl, irritated that she disturbed his thought train.
"Don't do that, you'll break it" – the command ignored. With two thuds, he dropped his feet off the foot rest and dragged himself to the door. Opening it, he bent down with a sigh and picked up the mail delivered weekly by the building-hired mailman; usually a teen desperate for any job.
The top white envelop was crumpled and had a brown sole mark – his accidental step on the mail he hadn't noticed earlier. He flipped through the white envelopes; all were addressed to his aunt. Banging the door closed, he returned to his seat and threw the mail across the counter at his aunt's direction as she scanned the fruit bowl.
"You could just hand them to me," his aunt said irritated, "What's eating you? All this stomping around… I don't like it; stop it." Taking an apple, she grabbed her mail and returned to her room.
Taro hated fetching mail; nothing came for him and it was always bills – a weekly reminder of the system that chained people's souls to a hallucinated figure - souls chained to the greed of others. He hated this underhand neoslavery.
As he gruffly ate his cereal, an epiphany dawned. A sinister smile crept on Taro's face: names would no longer be a problem.