GOD IS NOT A PUPPETEER

Eyes On Your Feet — I

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Pythagoras of Samos

Pythagoras was quite multifaceted.

A thief, a madman, and even a liar—as many had taken to calling him in the contemporary era. In centuries past, before the truth of his actions came to light, however, many revered the man for his contributions to philosophy. This extended to his works in the mathematical field, which he became best known for.

And so; it was he who proposed that the world and reality as man knew it, was made of numbers and figures—that numbers were the building blocks of reality. Everything could be explained with them, from the processes of nature to the processes of man. Pythagoras believed that the system of numbers was sacred, a nature unto its own. With numbers came order, an aspect of existence that gave it a pattern to be studied—an enigma that kept everything in its proper state.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Everything came by and you drifted alongside it—unminding, perhaps uncaring. You could not decide. When you placed yourself amongst a unit of imagined perfection, you believed you had all the time in the world to cherish it. Nothing would be able to take it away if you endured it in serenity, in optimism; for even if the harshest times came to be and you were left in their wake, you still had something to call your own.

(Foolishness, as some call it.

Desperation, your mind tells you.)

It was not a hard decision to make.

When you gazed upon the letters and numbers, you pondered on their significance to you; why was it that those damned little characters meant so much? Why have the divide between life and death be defined by these sets of red lines, when you knew they could be altered? Granted, they existed as indications, as both a warning and a taunt. To you, though, they were pointless.

(And they kill you, very carefully.)

To you, well. It was as simple as this: what you had existed as an imagined perfection for all that a person should not want to acknowledge, for what they should never bring themselves to face, and for the reality that stared at them with bloodshot eyes. It would have been ideal if someone else—someone with you—understood. But you had no idea where to begin, nor how to get your pain across; and there was no one with you to share this secret.

And so, the numbers became pointless, for the wisps of madness and obsession that creeped into your being.

(They tick by, like scrapes of wet dirt falling from a pipe and into a gutter. Rain drips down the tube, bringing with it clumps and filthied water, and yet it cleanses nothing.)

You questioned Sōichirō on why your eyes were red, once. He blinked, obviously not expecting the question. As he thought of an answer, he knelt before you and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You leaned into the touch, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Maybe the gods wanted to give you a gift." He smiled gently, after a beat of silence. "Red can drive away bad spirits, did you know?"

"Or like our flag!" Light added from beside him.

"Or like our flag." You mumbled.

(A singular red circle in a white field—)

(This is nowhere near warmth nor purity.)

You stared at yourself in the mirror. As you smiled, so did the girl you looked at; as you waved, so did she; and as you blew yourself a kiss, so did the reflection.

"You'll be fine," you giggled as you pressed a hand against the cool surface, eyes closed, "you have to be."

(You have to, you have to, you have to.)

(Not for anything else.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

As you have already indicated before, your new family was good at giving you ego. While you would not say that everything in itself appeared perfect—there's never such a thing as a perfect family, but oh, what a funny thought—you knew that your parents did their best to support their brood.

It filled you with a sense of gratification, an odd honour you did not even think you possessed. Perhaps it was out of a feeling of debt (and you must give back, after all, they raised and cared for you), perhaps even possession (a part of you grinned with malice upon realising that you were clingy with your father only because he looked like you, or you to him, and you had imprinted on the man like some common mutt).

Regardless of your reasonings, it stood to fact that Sachiko and Sōichirō wanted only the most for their children—and you and Light kept surpassing every expectation they had. Once, you found it hilarious, how skewed their perception of normalcy became. Your brother was a genius—no doubt about that. Yes, he still held the wide-eyed wonders of a toddler; but, no matter how you viewed it, he would always be faster than anyone else your age.

And you? Well, you knew what you were.

Perhaps it would be unfair to call yourself something akin to your brother, in this regard. By no means had you been a prodigy, both here and before. A bit better than average, sure, but nothing too out-there; a high-achiever, but in comparison to any greater person, you fell flat.

(Maybe that is why you wish to do so much more, now. You can be better, you think, only back then, you never change. But here, you can be more than better, more than the best.)

Still, you did what you could to appease your parents, and perhaps your brother as well. If you kept it up, then you would not have to worry about seeming too quick or mature beside Light. Both words had different meanings, truly—quick did not equate to mature, nor did mature always pertain to quick—but you cared little for the difference between them.

So long as you had something to boast about, something you could offer, it was fine.

It had to be.

(Everyone always leaves you behind. You will not allow them that chance, again.)

And, see—you did have a genuine sort of affection for your family, tainted as it was becoming with the memories creeping back into your head. Despite the brief flickerings of another group appearing when you looked at them, you wanted a chance to move past what you once knew. And so, you found yourself trying to retain Sachiko and Sōichirō's joy and pride.

You basked in their adoration and cherishment equally, though, despite your attachment to your father, you supposed you held a strange grasp on your mother.

You had conflicted emotions when it came to her—you still accepted what she gave and what she represented, mind, but between the two, you thought that she…

You—

A part of you wanted to take everything of her and keep it in a box where none would ever find it; have all of what she was to yourself, where only you could reach her, and only you could be what she knew.

(You hate perfect families. Always, always, always; there is something deeply wrong with them, and you think they are all hypocrites.)

If you did well, you might even get to keep her indefinitely.

If you did well, you could have this happiness with no worry of anything else on your mind.

And if you did well, no one would see you for what you truly symbolised: a reincarnation. Something in you turned sour and indignant at the idea of others realising how you came to be, in this new life. Perhaps it was because, if they did eventually assume that, you would lose whatever respect or regard you had.

(You do not want this love to cease. It is with a wild, animalistic movement that you hope to contain it in your hands; one thing you never wish will ever end.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"It's not supposed to look that way, Dawn-Dawn," Sachiko reprimanded you, taking a hold of your hand as you held your pencil.

Your katakana came out right, you knew—but as always, your preference for writing in a cursive Latin alphabet won over. And so, the Japanese characters ended up crooked, sometimes wider than you intended.

"They look like No-bu-na-ga's letters," Light sniffed from beside you, "Dad says so. Very messy, Dawn-Dawn."

"Is not!" You retorted, voice rising somewhat. "D'you even know what the letters look like? You're no better! I heard Papa say yours is chicken feet!"

"Feet! Yours aren't even that!"

"Mine's fine!"

"It's not!"

"It is!"

Sachiko rolled her eyes, sighing. "Kids, stop fighting. Rai-Rai, don't be mean to your sister."

She pinched Light's ear and he grumbled, but continued with filling up the boxes on his workbook in silence. You cast a petulant eye over it, lingering on the lack of erasures in his scribbling. In comparison to your own written work, at least, it was passable enough to be considered good. You let your mother direct you with the motions of your hand, but you listened with only half the attention as she did so.

"But Mama," you interrupted, "it's jus' the same thing."

"No, it's not."

"I did the curve on 'ne' right!"

"No, you didn't." Light muttered. Both of you ignored him.

"Try again, Dawn-Dawn," Your mother said—and here, the sharp edge to her voice made you shuffle in your seat a bit—so, you complied, quieting. "Your stroke order is wrong."

She paused, scrutinising your paper. "And the book says up to down."

You sighed, pursing your lips. Sachiko's hand dwarfed yours, so even moving it around was awkward. Still, you attempted to follow her instructions to the best of your abilities, pondering as only the rhythms of writing sounded in the room.

You liked to believe that you have made tremendous leaps in terms of your growth as a child, so far. You recognised more of the several alphabets now, despite your inability to actually apply them on paper. Watching cartoons with your brother, along with interacting with some of the neighbours in the apartment, gave you an exposure you sighed in relief at receiving.

Day by day, your vocabulary expanded, and your confidence grew. Light kept himself at a similar pace, though he took to things only a bit faster than you did. You would admit that you liked the competition—the stimulation—and he responded in kind, always doing his best to keep you on edge. It was something that kept you from thinking about the monotony of your current life, calling you away from realities you did not like from time to time.

You knew he revelled in it as well—the constant challenges—and so, you did as much as you could to make him stay that way.

"D'you think Papa's bringing anything t'night?" You asked when you finished the last of your katakana set for the day.

Your brother decided to extend his study period, and so you left him alone, but pestered him with questions every now and then in an effort to pass your boredom.

"He promised candy."

"Dunno." Light shrugged.

"I want konpeito."

"Mhm. 'Kay."

"Mama won't let me get any."

"That's 'cause you eat so much and you'll kill your teeth."

"I brush 'em all the time!"

Sachiko ran over your papers, humming here and there as she listened to the conversation happening around her. She reclined on the sofa, papers stacked on either side, occasionally running her fingers through your hair in the span of time that passed. You leaned into her touch, but fidgeted when she kept you in place.

"Even if your father brought konpeito, you wouldn't get any, Dawn-Dawn." Your mother slanted you a look. You turned away, pouting. "Not 'til you finish your sets."

"Not my fault the pencil won't co-o-pe-rate." You grumbled, but gasped when an idea came to you.

"Mama, Mama," you clutched onto her arm, "if I finish 'em all today, can I get any?"

"No. You still can't have too much candy."

Light put his pencil down and stacked his papers together. You spared him a glance, puffing out your cheeks when your mother rewarded him with a nod, and you did not fail to account for the satisfied gleam in her eye. You knew she and Sōichirō found the contests between the two of you hilarious and adorable—though it was Sachiko who encouraged it, in part.

They meant well, but it did nothing to stop the little bouts of irritation from occurring all the same. Of course, you still did your best to temper that sentiment. Your brother was a child—you were, too, but you had the advantage of maturity—and so you acknowledged it as it had been, a purely instinctual reaction.

"Fine. Oh, oh! D'you think Grandpa an' Grandma'll bring any?"

"Your grandmother might get a bit cross if you asked her, Dawn-Dawn." Sachiko grimaced.

Ah, and that was another matter you awaited with anticipation to address.

Those are your grandparents, Dawn-Dawn, Sōichirō once said in passing, as you pointed to a framed picture on the living room wall. He then went on to tell you about how Sachiko's family lived near the outskirts of Tokyo itself—and so, did not get the chance to be able to visit as much.

His family, however, resided within Kanagawa Ward. From what you knew, you even had an aunt on his side; she was older than her brother by two years and still remained unmarried, though she had a partner. Sōichirō moved out only during his time in the police academy, and she had been left to care for their parents. Two weeks ago, Sōichirō drily informed the three of you that said family might come to visit, to congratulate Sachiko on the upcoming arrival of her third child and to finally meet you and Light.

It had been a while since their last reunion, so there was more cause to want to be together.

Grandparents, huh?

(One pair is loud and dysfunctional. The remnants of another is only a bitter, hateful widow. They all hold the same significance to you: little to none.)

(Your fingers twitch in remembrance.)

"But she hasn't met us yet." Light frowned, "why would she get mad at Dawn-Dawn?"

"And that's a talk for another time, Rai-Rai." The woman smiled blandly. Your brother made a small noise of dejection. "You can ask when you meet her."

"It's fine, Li-Li. Maybe I'll get sweets after!" You giggled, but readied yourself to ask another question.

The notion in particular had lingered on your mind for quite some time now, and now that you were on the topic of your grandparents, you figured it might not hurt to talk about it.

"Mama, Mama."

You tugged on Sachiko's sleeve once again. The woman raised an eyebrow at you, gaze still on her assignment papers, but showing enough indication to tell you she paid attention.

"How'd you an' Papa meet?"

"Oh, yeah!" Your brother agreed. "Mom, you never said."

Sachiko blinked. "Have you asked him?"

You bit your lip, rocking back and forth on your feet. "Well, no. But you're here now!"

She snorted, but conceded to your inquiry. She paused in her movements, considering, then nodded to herself and set aside the files she had been working on. The woman slid them onto the coffee table as you shuffled onto the couch and Light followed, everything else forgotten as the two of you moved to sit on either side of her.

You stayed on the left and the boy took the spot on the right. You leaned against her, and she put her arms around her children.

"Your Papa and I met in college," she started, tone wistful, "one of my friends, a classmate, introduced me to her friend from highschool."

"What's college?" Light whispered to you.

You threw him a look. "Big people school. I think."

Sachiko shook slightly at your exchange, and then placed her hands over both of your heads, feeling along the silk of your hair. You two looked up at her with hopeful gleams in your eyes, eager to learn more.

"I didn't like him at first, you know?" She laughed at your reactions. "What? It's true!"

"But why?" Light frowned. "You love him very much."

"Yes, but I'm sure your father does the same. We don't always agree on things, just like you and Dawn-Dawn. But you still love your sister, don't you?"

"'Course I do!" He insisted, voice rising. "But we fight. You don't."

You chose this moment to make your own opinion known.

"'Cause you don't see it." You grinned, voice smug, like you boasted something only you had the chance to witness. "Papa slept on the couch the other night."

"He said he was tired! Being police is hard!"

"He also forgot to buy fish for Mama. Mama got mad."

"I wasn't mad, Dawn-Dawn," Sachiko interjected, lips twitching.

"So too!"

"No." Your mother shook her head, a small grin still on her face. "Now, do you want to hear the story or not?"

"Yes!" You and Light replied.

"I used to think your father was too stuffy for his own good. I liked going out, and he was too uptight! Always focusing on studies—and that's good, but he was so…"

"…so?" You prompted.

"Controlling! Well, somewhat. He used to be the vice president of the student council for his school, you know? I thought it got to his head."

You giggled. Light wrapped his arms around Sachiko, and set his head on her shoulder. You shifted so that your back faced the other two, and you played with your mother's hand, pressing on her palm and fingers.

"…what's a vice president?" Your brother mumbled.

"Dunno. Maybe it's a big-people-school thing."

"It's a leader, Dawn-Dawn. Like the emperor, but second."

"'Kay."

"Now, in my old school, no one really paid attention to the school council. I certainly didn't," here, Sachiko's tone turned secretive, "and I liked to pull pranks on them."

You barked out a laugh, high and unexpected—and Light gasped, eyes wide and putting a hand to his mouth.

"Anyways, that's how we met." She grinned. "Through a prank. He's a good person, your Papa, but at the time, I didn't like him. He was a bit standoffish at the start, too. So, when my friend took us both together on an outing with other people, I secretly put a rubber rat on his favourite spot at the park."

Interesting!

"Mom!" Your brother shrieked with a small, drawn-out whine. "That's bad!"

"How'd Papa do? Oh," you cackled, "Mama, tell us more!"

Sachiko joined in on your amusement. "He took it fine."

She looked down at you, still smiling. "I expected more of a reaction, but he took it fine."

"Did he scream?"

"Dawn-Dawn!" Light said, betrayed. "Poor Dad!"

"Oh, Rai-Rai, he was fine—really. But he squeaked just like that rubber rat when he sat on it and saw what it was!"

You could get used to this, you thought, as you watched your mother and brother interact. Everything about the moment was so innocent—free from the taint of the outside world. Light and easy. You could content yourself like this, with your father as well, and you might be able to say that you were happy.

And so it became a conflict, that when you shied away from the pull of your own mind and threw yourself into the leisure of your physical body, if you should be doing more to preserve this bubble of warmth.

Though, as you stared up at the numbers floating above Light and Sachiko's heads, you wondered if you would truly be able to do anything at all, if the difference your birth made could even amount to anything worth calling good.

(The tune of your madness restarts.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Ah, household chores, my beloved, I have not missed you at all, you mused, but I guess you're a different kind of fun.

"Like this, kids." Sōichirō demonstrated as he twisted the shirt.

His fingers held onto the fabric, and you and your brother watched with fascination as the man squeezed a large amount of water into the basin. You wrinkled your nose at the smell of the softener, but continued to observe your father's movements. He unrolled the piece of clothing.

Drip, drip, drip. Down the droplets go.

Obviously, you were already familiar with the process, though this stood to be one of Light's first encounters with washing clothes. He took it all with an excitedness you hardly expected. You assumed the boy would be more reluctant to do the chores, but he proved eager to help out his parents whenever and wherever he could.

Not that you bragged with any right to complain, since you did the same, but still.

Thank the gods I already know how to do this.

"Come on, Dawn-Dawn! Let's try it!" Light scuttled over to where Sōichirō vacated his stool, pulling out a random garment from the water. "Here, you take one end."

"I know what to do." You rolled your eyes. "Papa, move please."

Sōichirō complied, then stood at an arm's reach to monitor the both of you.

"Hold the end properly, Light. It'll slip from your hands. There you go—Dawn, grip it better. The water won't come out like that."

You followed his instruction, adjusting your hold onto the pants that Light had plucked out. The two of you folded it in half, and then twisted in opposing directions. Like the shirt, it released quite the amount of liquid, along with the overly-sweetened scent of some chemical.

Light whooped as it happened. You returned his smile, giggling softly.

"Another one!" He grinned up at Sōichirō. "Please?"

The man chuckled.

"Sure. Here, give me that," he bent over and you handed him the pants—still sopping wet, still dripping, but Light did not need to know that and your father was an indulgent person—then proceeded to squeeze out more water from the garment, into another basin behind you.

Light saw it, anyway. "Oh."

"It's alright, Rai-Rai. You can try again. Get a smaller piece so you can practise."

"Okay!" He chirped. "Here, Dawn-Dawn, get the…thing."

You turned back to your brother. "Thing?"

"Yeah, the…I don't know what it is."

"Eh? What is it?"

Your brother held up a suspicious piece of clothing, and you yelped, immediately moving to grab it away from him. "Light, that's mine! Give it back!"

"But what is it?"

"It's mine! That's what!"

"Kids, what—Dawn!"

In an attempt to grab your underwear from your brother, you nearly toppled into the basin. Your foot slipped—though, before you could fall inside, your father's hand pulled your dress from behind. Light froze in place, dropping the garment. It made a small splash, sending water out onto the floor and dampening the hem of your dress. You groaned, slumping. Sōichirō sighed.

Your brother stammered. "I didn't know! Sorry!"

Irritation spiked within you. You righted yourself, and made to open your mouth, but your father beat you to it. In an instant, his entire demeanour shifted; where minutes ago he was calm and patient, he turned alarmed and reprimanding.

"You could've hit your head, Dawn." You whirled around to rebuke his words, but wilted under his gaze. "I'm not mad, but you can't just do that without thinking!"

(You do not mean to see it. For the fraction of a second, it is not Sōichirō before you.)

He means well, he means well, he means well—you promptly repeated to yourself—you were too impulsive, anyway. He's not angry. It's your fault. It's not that big of a deal, too. It's honestly your fault. It's not him. It's not him.

(That does not stop the words from escaping you.)

"But he did it first!"

Wrong move, idiot! Stop making everything about you!

"That's not the point, Dawn!" He sighed in aggravation, and you flinched.

("Boy, go get the belt.")

The image of Sōichirō's face coincided with another man's, tall and imposing as you bowed your head. The light from behind did more to emphasise such a picture—it framed his form with hard lines, with shadows blending everything together, and in your panic you could not distinguish who was who.

You stilled your hands and placed them at your sides, fingers stiff but shaking.

It's your fault, stupid.

"Sorry." You muttered, refusing to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry."

("I said get the fucking belt!")

"Dawn." His voice softened, and you felt more than saw as your father knelt before you, wet clothes forgotten.

"Dawn, look at me. I'm not mad." You swallowed, but acquiesced. He placed his hands on your shoulders, languid so as not to scare you even further. "But you could've gotten hurt."

(It does not stop the saliva from clogging in your throat, nor the soft sheen in your eyes.)

(Voices overlap like discordant notes ringing in your head.)

"I'm sorry." You whispered again, and your father bent down to take you into his arms. The gesture was warm, almost hesitant, but still inviting all the same. He gently shushed your apologies, stroking your hair.

"It's okay, hey, don't cry." Sōichirō ran his thumbs over your cheeks, where a few tears have already fallen onto. He held your face in his hands, and you forced yourself to meet his eyes. He did not seem to regard you with any ill intent.

(The phantom inside your head would have given you a beating for the slip alone.)

Kind, he's kind. But I can't stop seeing someone else—

"Do you know what you did wrong?" He pressed. "You're a smart girl. Why do you think I said it was dangerous?"

"'Cause I nearly fell. An' I shouldn't be mad at Li-Li."

The said boy just came back from turning the faucet off, and took a seat on the wooden stool. He simmered down when Sōichirō made mention of your tears. As he kept himself on the chair, he fiddled with a portion of the hose, face downcast as your father talked to you.

(He is not supposed to be guilty—now, look at what you have done—)

Sōichirō removed his hands from your face and you wanted to frown at the loss of physical contact, but kept yourself mum.

"You nearly fell. And while Light was holding your…while he was holding something of yours, that doesn't mean he knew about it, Dawn." The man straightened and you averted your gaze once more. "And I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have shouted."

"Sorry, Papa."

"Me too, Dawn-Dawn. Now, go apologise to your brother."

Light accepted your mumbling, even making an attempt to cheer you up with a jest. He nudged your shoulder, smiling—and while you reciprocated the action with a stupid laugh escaping your lips, you remained wary of his reactions. This was the first time Sōichirō had ever shouted at either of you, after all, and while it had been a brief moment of unexpected anger, it still happened to be a shock.

(It is a minor thing. But, as always, you blow it off to even bigger proportions.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

In the next week, Sachiko informed you and your brother that clothes washing would be done with the washing machine instead. The two of you could help with segregating the garments according to their colours. You shared a look with Light at this, though he squeezed your hand in comfort, and you took the gesture for what it was. You blinked down at the numbers on the washing machine console, printed onto the slots and knobs.

If only it's as easy to set a timer and expect a cleaned result at the end.

(The numbers are green, and they always shift with soft beeps as they flickered—a stark contrast to the red ones that poised mute and ominous in the air. Had you been a machine, do you think, would the knowledge of these little timers be easier to swallow?)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Pythagoras believed in the music of the spheres; perfectly harmonious numbers that governed the motions of the earth and the heavenly bodies. Everything in the earth moved in harmonious spheres, and so it must have been these aspects of existence that held the world together. Where there was male, there was female; where there was hot, there was cold; where there was wet, there was dry; where there was near, there was far; and so on, and so forth.

All things had an opposite, and the way to uncover a semblance of truth behind them lied through the use of numbers. When this balance occurred, harmony was able to exist. And without it in the world, all things fell apart. Without numbers to make sense of how humans see the earth around them, incomprehension and inconsistency reigned supreme.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

There was a strange churning in your gut as you walked around the streets of Shinjuku with your brother. While you wanted to blame the pain on something that you ate, something told you that the truth of it did not exist as simply as you thought it to be.

It felt much like vomiting without the vomit itself rising—only as a heave that burned in your chest and warmed the bottom of your stomach. It lied on the edge of your perceptions—always hedging, always at the corner of your eyes; some sort of unseen entity that you could not truly voice a definition for.

You chose not to blink so rapidly, for fear of missing to see what it was that had you on edge. Of course, you found nothing, not even as you posed delicately phrased questions to Light and he responded with generic answers you expected.

"Wanna play hopscotch?" He asked as he swung your hands together. "I saw some people near the side doing it. We can go do it with them!"

You shook your head. "Not now. I feel weird."

He paused and turned to you, concern evident on his features. His brows furrowed and he let go of your hand, running an eye over your form to check for anything wrong.

"Okay. Why do you feel weird?"

"Dunno. It's very…itchy."

"Itchy? Where?"

"I dunno."

"How can you not know where you're itchy?"

I truly don't know, nor can I even begin how to explain, brother dearest, you wanted to say, it simply is.

"It's ev'rywhere. And it just feels weird."

"But what's 'it'?"

"I don't know, Li-Li."

As you said it, your eyes caught onto the figure of a woman hiding by a tree. She stood still, much like a statue, though everything else about her seemed to sway with the wind. But that was not what held your attention, no—it had been the way the person…appeared vastly misplaced in the area, like a stark wrongness that failed to recognise itself.

She wore a deep blue kimono—a rich, lovely thing boasting swirling golden-threaded gentians; and she postured herself with a certain confidence, filling into her robe like she knew she had been born to parade it. Her skin was pure white, with black hair that reached the floor, and hikimayu dotted on her forehead. Her eyes were black, pure black, a kind that did not even reflect light—like two pits of nothingness set upon a porcelain mask.

She smiled a dark-toothed grin.

(The mark of a noblewoman.)

The woman faced you, clearly watching, even as you stopped to look back at her. It was not that you meant to stare so blatantly that even your brother turned to face what had you so captivated. But you became unable to help yourself, then, frozen in wonder as you were.

There it is.

(The mark of old fears.)

The air around you slowed to a still, like a moment in time unwilling to move, and certainty dawned on you with a harsh bite on your skin. The street had always been bustling, even before you took your walk with your brother, but here, now, it had never been more hushed.

"Li-Li." He made a noise of question at your urging. "Who's that?"

"Where?" The boy frowned, looking to where you had. "Who're you looking at?"

You kept your attention trained onto the woman, and she kept smiling, and you two kept up the silent exchange. A breeze picked up and leaves circled the area, carrying with them a faint whiff of cigarettes. Light took ahold of your hand once again, and you blinked out of your stupor.

"There's no one there, Dawn-Dawn."

In less than even one second, the woman was gone. No rustle of clothing, no disturbed flowers or passersby, not even an indication of shadows nor a wind of movement.

What the fuck? You paused. What the fuck was that?

"Dawn-Dawn," Light nudged you, worried, "what's wrong?"

Something.

"Nothin'," you replied, "never…nevermind."

He hummed, unconvinced, but let you be. Your brother dragged you to an area by the side of the road where other children your age ran around with paper wheels, laughing and making his intentions known for the others to hear. You followed, instead choosing to subject yourself to the sudden faintness in your head, even as you took one glance back to the tree where you saw the woman.

The feeling did not abate for quite some time.

(A cat watches you from afar.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"You can't just leave your rice like that, Dawn," Sachiko frowned, moving the viand in your bowl with her chopsticks, "and stop playing with your food."

"But I can't, Mama." You pouted. With a bit of shame, you looked away. "I'm…I'm full."

The woman paused in her action, and then sighed. You hoped you did not irritate her too much—especially considering how stressed she had become in the past week. Yesterday, you eavesdropped on her ranting to your father about an issue that cropped up in the kindergarten. A parent making some demand or the other for their child, or so you heard. The problem was not even the child themself—just the parent—and at this, you snorted to yourself, giggling.

Silly adults.

You presumed you could also attribute a part of her agitation to her growing condition, to the babe forming inside of her stomach. She was near heavy with the child, now, at five or six months; the bump showing faster than you expected. And Sachiko, while not much of her attitude had changed, did become more irascible in the past few days.

"You shouldn't have taken so much food then, sweet girl." Sōichirō remarked as he poured a glass of water for your brother. The boy thanked him. "Not finishing it means you're going to get more."

Oh, shit, sorry.

At this, you slumped, knowing full well it had been your mother who put the food in your bowl for you. Still, you had no desire to upset her even further, so, you quit your complaints and forced yourself to eat the dinner.

You're being stupid again, you blushed at your father's reprimand, gods, just finish the damn thing. See? It's not that hard. It's not even that deep.

Bite by bite, with a short, jerky movement, you swallowed. The meal went down like a knife in your throat. Regardless; it would have been a waste to do so otherwise, honestly, and you did not want to be the cause of another issue at the moment. Even if you could not have the energy to push down the food anymore; since your mother insisted, then fine.

In an effort to ignore your own discomfort, you struck up another line of conversation.

"Mama, can Li-Li an' I go ou' again?" You asked, with a mouthful of shrimp and rice. "Shoppin' was fun!"

And it was. Previously, you—along with your brother—were allowed to go out of the apartment once more; to purchase a few things from the mini-shop down the road. Sachiko required a certain ingredient to use for cooking, something you knew had been put into the meal you currently were taking bites out of. It had been quite the experience, truly; there existed a lingering bit of fear from the feeling of being stalked, but you had been able to ignore it in favour of helping your brother out with his task. He was three years old, now, as said by Sōichirō himself; while you were yet to follow, that you developed at a similar rate to the boy qualified you for more practical tasks.

You did not know Japan had this custom for its children; setting them out for errands at such a young age, although the country's value of independence must have come from somewhere. And so, you and Light were told to go out to buy some vegetables and seasoning for the dish. You tagged along only to keep an eye on him; while you trusted the general culture enough that nothing would have happened, you still wanted to see it with your own eyes.

And what an experience it gave you! No one even questioned it—though there had been some cooing from a few passing grandmothers, the occasional neighbour who was out and about, and a glance here and there from passersby. You reached the store in time, bought what you needed, and went back home without a hitch. Overall, it made for quite an enlightening situation.

(A memory comes to you in a haze. You remember being two, almost three, years old, back then. An uncle or a godfather holds you close to his chest. Your family is on some sort of vacation, and you are giggling as you watch a show with fire-dancers.

"Look, look!" You squeal, clapping. "Red!"

"Yes, that's right. Red," a man laughs, and his voice is rich and husky, "very red.")

(There is red all around you, now, with these godsdamned letters and numbers floating above every face you could see. In every corner you turn, in every reflective surface you glimpse, in every photograph you hold; they are always there.)

You helped in counting the money and in carrying the stuff back, trading inside jokes with Light. The two of you also discussed some other things: like what you wanted to name your new sibling, or perhaps what form it would have taken, and what role you would give it when it came out into the world.

"I want a baby brother," Light grinned when he opened the door back to your apartment, pulling off his slipper, "I'd teach him hiragana better than you!"

You rolled your eyes. "It's a girl, Li-Li, I can feel it. An' you'd prob'ly bore her to death."

(One day in the future, you reminisce and wonder if the life in your mother's womb is worth all the changes you make.)

In a jolt, you were taken out of your recollection and back to the conversation at hand. Sachiko blinked, surprised but pleased at your question.

"I'd appreciate that, Dawn-Dawn," the corners of her lips quirked up, "I'd be very happy."

You smiled at her.

This feels nice—being able to do something for you.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Once, you anticipated seeing these kinds of events in person. The festivals. While you disliked being forced to mingle with others in such a fashion—in large, crowded spaces where anyone and everyone could be watching your person—you had to admit occasions like them held their own kind of charm.

Whether it had been a feast for saints or a gathering of convenience, you would say that you missed this. The loudness, the joy, the community. All so very palpable, these sorts of celebrations; a form of kinship that even the most withdrawn could not deny—a belonging, a feeling of being alive.

And here, now, Kanda Matsuri was a spectacle to behold.

(There are dancers all around you, with masks and outfits adorned in the likeness of figures from histories long past. They smile and twirl, beads and feathers and paints and drums a flash of colour, and you stare at them in fascination.

There comes the floats with the flowers, then the statue of a man in agony, then the warrior performers, then the beauty queens, then the bands, then the children, and you are cheering along with them, and your throat and your cheeks hurt, and then you lose yourself in the rush of the moment, and then someone holds your hand, and then—)

"What's that?" Light pointed at one of the palanquins. You turned to look from your position on Sōichirō's hip.

He was staring at a mikoshi; the hexagonal kind, with gilded poles and a curved gable. Its exterior paraded ornate gold swirls, with hints of blue paint on its walls and red tassels on all corners, and a statue of a phoenix fixed atop its roof. It sat on the shoulders of roughly thirty-three men, all singing and smiling as they passed by. The procession slowed, and you watched as several other festival-goers joined in the merriment.

"That's a mikoshi, Rai-Rai," Sachiko pulled him close as another man ran past, "there's a god in there."

"A god?" You said curiously.

Your father hummed an affirmative. "Many say their spirits are inside, and the ones who carry them to the shrine sing so they're happy."

"The god?"

"Yes."

The first thing that occurred to you was that, had you held the chance to be with those revellers, you would have pushed your way in to touch the marvel above. You knew the people you had been born to, before—the ones from a culture that reinforced so much of a religious standing in life—would not have passed the chance to do so as well.

And you might have found yourself amongst them, though not for the same reasons they did. You would not be touching something that housed a god for the sake of being close to it, rather, you would be scraping a portion off its little container—pocketing what you could with the sleight of hand.

(Selfish child. This is why you never belong, then.)

(Thief, thief, thief.)

"Oh!" Light shouted. "There's 'nother one!"

The next mikoshi that came along was smaller in design, though it was no less grand. This one had been shaped in a rectangle, and also with a curved roofing, but instead of having gold as its primary colour, it displayed a burnt bronze finish. Buddhist décor pieces lined up on its gable ends, and like the previous shrine, it held a phoenix on top of it.

Absolutely beautiful, you thought, I wonder how old those things are.

As it went by, however, you stilled.

When the group of women carrying this particular mikoshi walked in front of you, an oppressive air—heavy and dizzy and threatening to choke—made itself known. At once, you clutched at Sōichirō's kimono, the fabric creasing underneath your hold. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, gasping and quivering from the sheer force of that ominous energy.

Gods, what is that—what is that, what is that, what is that, gods on earth, what is it—

(The performers keep spinning, and you prance with them, until finally several others come with you to join in the dance. You hold on together, like a strange chain of flesh, moving in circles as whoops and chants erupt from the crowd. They are clapping, they are running, they are grooving, and then the process ends.)

(Your breath is taken away as someone crowns you with flowers from the beauty queen's bouquet. You cackle, calling her a thief.

"Of the flowers or your love?" She smirks. "Here. You'll almost look like one of them."

You snort. "I'll never be like them.")

"You should not be here." Hissed a voice.

(Furious. Disbelieving. Spiteful—)

A cry of, Dawn!—sirens blaring—a body flying in the wind—suffocation—the unmistakable trail of gasoline—

—standing on a cliff, laughter in the wind—

—a blinding flash of white—the sun—

—a horrible screeching—your throat was clogged—drowning—static—

—fallingfallingdowndowndownI'mgoingdown—and—

(You do not belong, you do not belong, you do not belong, you do not belong—)

"Leave."

"Dawn. Sweet girl. Can you hear me? Dawn. Fuck, Dawn. Sachiko, it's happening again—"

"Dear, is she—?"

"I'll—I'll take her to the sides."

(The whispers start. They begin in droves, mounting and mounting—until finally they buzz like flies and drunks in your ears in the middle of the night. They form tunes of static; incomprehensible sentences a flood of murmurs.)

(You will never belong.)

Sōichirō gave you a small packet of konpeito to help you calm yourself.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Pythagoras walked without mind for his environment as he pondered on the recent works of his acolytes. It was not until he passed by a metalsmith's shop that he drew out of his musings, spellbound by the clanging of a hammer and anvil. It resonated within the space of the street, gone ignored by those who strolled and went about—but he took notice of it, nodding his head along as if in synchronisation with a beat.

Ah-hah, and what a wonderful sound that is, he thought while stroking his beard, a very good balance of tones. Very…oh!

"Harmonia!" The man shouted, eyes alight with joy.

A few people turned to him in question, but returned to their tasks upon seeing only the aged philosopher talking to himself.

"There he goes again." One woman muttered as she fixed the basket on her hip. Her companion snorted, shaking her head. "That old madman."

"Music must have something within it, as well. Would the voice of a lyre be constructed with numbers, I wonder? Ah, I must make haste."

He hurried off with a smile on his face, and went on another quest for truth.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(The numbers are your next damnation.)

(Your first, too, until something even greater appears.)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: From what I saw online, the Japanese flag symbolises the sun (it's called the hinomaru; and, as we all know, the nation is the Land of the Rising Sun). I was more focused on the colours, though. I couldn't find an answer on the actual and accurate meaning to them—so, I gave my own interpretation, one which could be as close as it gets to what a sun (or a dawn, hehehe) represents. If anyone else knows their real definitions, though, please do tell me! I don't want to make any false assumptions about such a thing.

⸺

FACT OF THE DAY: There's actually a lot of mixed statements about Pythagoras, but one general consensus is that many of the works attributed to him aren't his works originally. They were, perhaps, borne from the efforts of his acolytes (the ones from his cult); and some other claims even say that the knowledge he was credited for truly came from Egypt.