GOD IS NOT A PUPPETEER

Eyes On Your Feet — III

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Parmenides and Zeno, of Elea

Parmenides was known to have contested Heraclitus' ideologies.

He did not believe in the nature of change. To him, both the past and the future were illusions; he proposed that the universe was timeless and unchanging. Humans lived in a block reality, where there existed no such thing as time. Change was a mirage, and everything was permanent. His student, Zeno, agreed with this teaching. However, he meant to add one more idea to this proposition: the world consisted of one indivisible thing—and Zeno referred to this as the One.

(Being.)

All life stood motionless: the One was a perfect sphere, round and evergoing—unborn and imperishable, whole, unique, immovable, and without end. It did not exist in the past, nor yet should it be, since it now was, altogether, one and continuous. Parmenides stated that changes were all in the mind—and Zeno added that the only constant stood to be the One, the permanence.

Reality, as humans saw it, was based only on appearances and perception.

And reality, as it truly was, had been set, and then became unalterable.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

You moved out of the hotel and into your new home, wishful as you breathed in the air of the place.

Beside you, Light hummed at the sight of the house.

Your family had already done the customary traditions for transferring in; that one ritual Sōichirō insisted on having (a cleansing of sorts), and afterwards, bringing gifts to your neighbours. You and Light had been the ones to ring their doors and deliver them homemade sweet buns, courtesy of your mother. Those who greeted you were delighted at receiving the food, and even one woman offered you another piece of cake in return.

When you came back to your house, it was with satisfaction, and not the slightest bit of joy.

('A new space to roam around! Finally! I was tiring of that damned building.'

'I agree. That dingy little hole was getting clogged, anyways.'

'It's brighter here.'

'Smaller windows, though.'

'They even have a garden!'

'Oi—leave the grass alone.'

'What? It's not as if they'd notice. Besides, it's new. They won't see it.'

'I still find the ritual amusing—do they really think their beads and prayers keep anything out?')

"Can we sleep first, Papa?" You yawned when you settled into the living room. "I'm tired."

Light echoed your question, grunting as he stretched. He sat on the sofa, testing its bounciness—and when he found it to his liking, took off his jacket and used it as a blanket. You snorted at such a sight. Sachiko smiled at the boy, patting him on the head when she passed by.

"You kids do that. But don't forget to clean later, okay? We still need to fix things around the house."

"Okay!" You both answered as one. You joined your brother in his rest, and soon, you drifted off to slumber.

(Something in you wakes up. Almost immediately, afterwards, you notice the change—but you make sure not to show it in front of the others. More memories come back to you, and with them, a myriad of emotions that you once feel so deeply.)

Time passed, and everything calmed for the slightest bit. You kept pondering over Sachiko's numbers, and music echoed through the house.

You were asked, once, if you wanted to play any instruments. Your mother promised you some new gifts should you do well with your katakana—and later on, your kanji—and the same words had been repeated to Light. The two of you shared a look of excitement at this. He, in contrast, would be given the choice for a sport he wanted to play. You decided to learn the guitar—something you already knew, from before—and he picked tennis and baseball.

Sōichirō, in addition to his experience with sports, already held a bit of knowledge on the musical device, and so, set about to prepare you two for your hobbies-to-be. He and his wife pored over some magazines they picked up on the way as you went to your new residence.

[ Ladybugs in red, blue, and yellow costumes come swarming in—and dance the samba. ]

For a while, everything was good, and you became content.

(The wariness at the red numbers is muted into something quieter. Still there and never gone, but it becomes secondary to most things…next to an insanity that you are beginning to recall.)

Happiness existed as a sensation. People obsessed over these—they fed on the drama, the excitement, and most of all, the entertainment. And things that reminded people of happiness, perhaps things like tragedy or comedy, it was catharsis—as Aristotle would later quote; one of the things individuals looked to in times of severe boredom or severe distress. And happiness became useful that way, because it evoked reactions. It was a spectacle and it was emotionally stimulating. Most others were led by their hearts—and the quest for happiness, time and time again, happened to be one of life's most debated topics.

Children stood to be the most susceptible to the idea of it, though they were given the purer explanation for such a phenomenon. At a young age, they were taught the basics of what happiness was meant to be and promised the comfort of contentment if they sought it out. It was for their parents, for their teachers, for strangers, and for their friends.

But the aspects of that happiness, perhaps a notion such as love—love was for them, something that belonged to them alone. It was what they were told to write about in their personal essays, it was what they cried for in their beds. Happiness was a sensation and people liked it, but you supposed love would always be an instinct first.

(Where do you draw the line between either, here?)

Love was watching Sachiko glow when she and Sōichirō held their children in their embrace for a picture, it was watching the policeman swoon over the kindergarten teacher, it was watching the two of them dance in the living room to a decade-old ballad. Love was seeing Light prepare himself for the arrival of his new sibling, it was seeing him puffing up to work harder and act as vigilant as much as a four-year-old could do, it was seeing the childish anticipation in his eyes.

You thought it would have been something of a show to you, a background process—but they all felt tangible, corporeal, like nothing else mattered in the world save for these three people.

Yet still, you found yourself focusing on Light.

He's the main character of this story. I wonder, did he and Sayu ever get something like this in canon?

[ Even the birds gave the loving couple a bunch of flowers tied with a red ribbon, and a kiss of love. ]

You paid no mind to the celebrations happening, intent on making progress with the things stuck inside your head. You wrote random words in shaky letters and paired them with silly drawings, so you did not forget. You made childish renditions of what love and happiness looked to be on intermediate pad papers and smiled when you were asked about them.

You told Sachiko and Sōichirō that it was all for Sayu.

"I'm happy to be a big sis, now!" You intoned.

Easily enough, the pair had been charmed by your little artworks; your father gained a dazed look in his eyes and mumbled about the innocence of children and whatnot, and your mother looked like she was about to cry. You turned away from the scene and instead went over to your brother, who was admiring the things you drew. When he noticed your shifted attention, he grinned at you.

"That's very pretty, Dawn-Dawn." He said as he ghosted his fingers over a particular drawing you liked.

('Hmm. How would you rate this?'

'Have you been to that place?'

'Question is: what place is that?'

'It's a scribble in wax, pay it no mind.')

('What's this, anyway? I thought they still used stone tablets.'

'…how long have you been gone?'

'Sometimes, you lose track of the seasons, here and there.'

'Oh, yes, evidently.')

In choppy crayon colours, you made a seaside house, sitting on black sand and surrounded by palm trees. Right beside it, on a worn-down deck, a family gathered for a nighttime bonfire. Of course, the image is not as refined as you wanted it to be—your skills severely held back by your own chubby hands and the crappy quality of your materials—but you hoped it came across well enough.

(You are bouncing atop a weathered log, balancing and laughing when the trunk nearly snaps. Your knees bend, the wind picks up, and you dive into the sea. Someone follows after you, and she swims to the bottom of a sea cave. You grin at her when she looks at you from underneath the water, bubbles in her mouth; you pull a thumbs up, and then float into an angel position.)

(The water is cold, and yet…it keeps you warm.)

(You miss the snugness of your mother's womb.)

"I wanna go to the beach too!" Light turned to your parents. "Can we go there, please?"

Sachiko put a hand on Sōichirō's arm. "Dear, we should! Right after Sayu, maybe?"

Your father hummed. "Why not? Then you kids can meet your other relatives by then."

Light whooped, and the two adults smiled at his enthusiasm. You returned his joy, if a bit hesitant—though you took care to make sure no one saw—glancing at the numbers above Sachiko's head.

Sweet boy, that's a dead dream.

(And what a dream it is. A wretched perception, no?)

He was elated to share your supposed sentiments about becoming an older sibling. Now, it stood as one more connection you two had. You did not bother to correct him, simply offering him a piece of bond paper and asking if he wanted to join your activities. If anything, his joy became even more palpable, and it was all you could do to stifle the ugly feeling in your chest.

(Happiness is a ruse which can fail at any time, but love is the primal feeling not so easily contained.)

The sensations of rapture from your past returned, and in an inhale, you forced certain images out of your mind.

You loved this boy, you loved this version of Light that you were slowly growing up with—but even if you gave your trust so easily to others in the past, and you were quick to forget their mistakes against you, you never did anything as kind as to forgive.

(A monstrosity starts to creep into your being. It is more apparent these days, especially when you wake in the early hours of the morning and take a moment to observe your family. You watch them with a smile on your face, soft and terrible; desperate, possessive, unbending.)

(You wish to keep them to yourself, for yourself, and you will not care even as the rest of the world turns to ash. Their lives sit in your palms—always dancing to a non-existent tune, always moving to an irony only you know.)

And you would not dare to overlook any little detail just for the sake of sleeping easier.

This boy in front of you was pure, you knew.

But that did not stop the thoughts running rampant inside your head.

(Purity can also be used as a weapon. It nearly kills you before, until you take your life by your own impulsive decision; and it is killing you, now.)

(You would hate to break his spirit.)

[ Today, in this fun land of dreams, I go to a festival dance in the forest, in a white dress. ]

It's a weird mix of love and hatred. Does a thing even exist? I don't know. But it's there, it's keeping me in a grip I didn't even know I was in. Like a bug in a container, and it can't breathe, and the only thing left is sheer panic—

Sōichirō discreetly pulled out a digital camera and immediately set to capturing your little moment with your brother, grinning and joking as Sachiko laughed along with him.

"Our little Sayu could see this in the future," you heard him whisper, "they'll be wonderful."

You tried to recall certain emotions from your previous life: the childish empathy you giggled with when your brother was still in your mother's stomach, and the happy hopes you forced yourself to feel when your sister came into the world. You held some form of fondness for those two siblings, once, but that was all. When the years passed and the three of you grew older and exhausted, all pretence of amiability had been dropped.

You wondered if you would grow just as bored with your new sister's nascency, now. Despite putting up with Light's energy and innocence, you knew it would not be long until you had to find a source of amusement to satiate your own dark thoughts.

(The music keeps playing, and your heart burns in your chest.)

[ At the celebration where we pledged our happiness, the cute bugs in the forest gathered with instruments. ]

The darkest part of you, at least you thought, wanted to stamp down on your brother's childhood. It begged with the need to escape in a flurry of green and bronze, in a mess of chemicals underneath the sink and vomit on the bathroom floor. Envy was a natural thing, even for children, because it was demanded by their own impulses.

(You do not want the burden of those damned red numbers; this is unnatural, you think, this should not be something that exists. It is chaos, it is an abomination, and it is revolting—no one should have this kind of foreknowledge.)

(An hourglass that refuses to stop, until the glass itself is broken and the sand can only be scattered about. A situation where you can only cry, until the loss happens and all that is left is bitterness and acquiescence.)

It's unfair. It's unfair. Why, why, why—

(Your paralysis spirals into something worse than paranoia.)

There was something inside you—as you watched him be so free and careless with his affections—that itched to drag him by his hair and make him kneel on the doorway of the house, or sleep in the hottest spot in the garden; a budding rage and pettiness that urged you to make him live through what you had to, once.

(You remember a day when you are eight years old, tugging at your mother's dress and asking for cake. You remember a day when she gives you a pair of bruised cheeks for your wish. It is a day when you have to wear the ugly blue-purple on your face and say it is your fault.)

(It is a time you believe in the lie, because you had the audacity to even demand anything at all.)

It became irrational, then, to feel so annoyed by a sack of flesh that had yet to even exist. Even more so for another child who had nothing to do with the other's conception. But that thought did not stop you from doing so, anyways. It was the same when you looked at Light, now, all red-cheeked and starry-eyed. You wanted to celebrate with the child in his enthusiasm and at the same time shove him into a pit for it.

Silently, as you sipped your drink from a cute little mug, you confronted this gut reaction and smothered it with a vengeance. It could not escape just yet.

Not now, you thought, not now.

[ The round, round moon shone with the light of love—and the moonlit night went on. ]

You smiled when you asked for another slice of the blueberry cheesecake—sweet as the dessert was, sweet as you pretended to be, sweet even when your cherry juice burned in your throat and the desserts pooled like acid in your gut.

(Red, red, red. Down, down, down.)

(But there is nothing you can do, except to take things as they are.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

In the beginning, you were almost amused when you recognised what it was that you could see. Almost, and for a few seconds. After all, only one person in the story had been born with the same eyes you had, and it was never explained just how they appeared, or even came to be.

Once, you might have even giggled upon realising you could see the future—in two ways—then: you knew the plot by heart, and after your little revelation, you finally knew a person's death on sight.

But you grew too attached, and in your collapse, the voices in your head reminded you of all you had to lose.

(Your arrogance is the start of your undoing. This is the virus you become.)

('It's like a little parasite.'

'Is that a new nickname, then?'

'What? 'Little Pest'?'

'A darling little force of reckoning.')

('You seem fond of that thought, yes.'

'Speaking of—have the others said anything about this, yet?'

'Not as far as I've heard. Who knows? Maybe she would return.'

'It just keeps getting better.')

This was a new world, now.

All its pieces have moved along when you inserted yourself where you should have not.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

The physical, at a superficial status, was a direct factor onto the psychological. Most individuals happened to be raised in a society—an institution which dictated what, who, why, or how one must be. On the third level of Maslow's Hierarchy, it had been stated that love and belonging were the needs to be met by a person. A want for acceptance, a sense of purpose.

If that purpose did not exist, then what stood as the reason for the person to be where they were, anyway?

Physicality was one of the main determinants of an individual's perception of others. Take the halo effect: the cognitive bias in which the phenomenon occurs causes one to make conclusions about a person. If someone was considered to be 'ugly' in the conventional sense, despite having an average face and physical build, they were still concluded with the assumption that they were lesser in others' eyes.

Flesh influenced the mind in such a manner that the body became a prelude to opinion.

But then you took a look at yourself in the mirror. You thought the red eyes were very pretty. Ultimately, though, they liked to scream at you a simple truth: the fact that you did not belong. And in your sadness, you could only whine and moan—you could only weep. Your flesh was a manifestation of things that should have never been, wastes that took up space in places they never existed at all to begin with.

(It is the kind of privilege you do not deserve.)

You supposed it was arrogant to moon so much over it, but you had nothing else to agonise with. What else was there to ponder about? It became impossible, then, to think of life and death and being, and say something definite—when you went about as physical proof of what surpassed the general conclusions on human perception. Science and sociology dictated those three aspects of existence as final, but here you were.

Still, you lived, past death—and still, you died, even as you remained alive; still, you became nothing, even as you had been something before—and still, you turned into something once again, even as you were already reduced into nothing in the past.

So, you took a look at yourself in the mirror, and you decided that you hated your face. Oh, you loved that you took after your father, that you had this connection with him, yes. But nevertheless, it stood as a symbol of what should have not reappeared; like a corpse in a grave, or perhaps a wilted flower in its vase. You appreciated the semblance, but your mind told you it was only because of your own narcissism at play.

(Greedy, greedy, greedy child.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Parmenides' view of reality was an early known example of monism—which was the belief that the ultimate reality existed as one thing alone, and that all phenomena are a part of this single universal. This reality was one and could not be divided into parts, so everything became connected and related to everything else.

The best example of monism was the belief in a singular God or deity as the ultimate source of all things in the universe; or, perhaps, the belief that the ultimate reality was not God, but was instead a unified field of energy that permeated all things.

This endured as a central idea in many religions, such as Hinduism, Buddhism, and Taoism. Monism became important because it helped individuals to understand the connection between everything and everyone in the universe, showing them the significance of interconnectedness of all things. There was a collective, an us, a whole, a group to consider.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

You celebrated your third birthday with a silent, desperate wish, nibbling on candy as if their saccharine taste would help you do anything to stop the future. Of course, they amounted to nothing. Your smile was there only to help distract from the pain.

"Orange, purple, orange, purple," you swatted Light's hand away when he tried to get one from your pile, "orange, purple—"

"What's the difference?"

"Nothin'. I just like the colours."

"Dawn-Dawn, just give me one."

"But I hate the yellows."

"Then get the pink."

"They're all the same, though."

"All the same! Then get another one!"

You poured several of the bead-sized treats into your mouth, nearly choking on them and on your laughter when your brother watched you with a whine. As you did so, Sōichirō took a picture, immortalising the image of your stupid grin and all the colours inside it.

You threw the packet at Light, cackling with a full mouth and drool at the edge of your lips when it hit him square on the face. Sachiko laughed, but reprimanded you.

"Dawn!" Your brother screeched, then checked to see if anything had been left inside the plastic. "You ate them all! Rude!"

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

One month before the babe's expected arrival, a voice appeared in your life.

You were confused.

You had been alone in the living room, at the time. Your brother was in the hallway, helping Sachiko with babyproofing the house. The two of them conversed somewhere near the kitchen door, setting up Light's old baby gate, a white one made with thick plastic that reminded you of the kind used for dogs.

You had been fiddling with a cut-up Avon magazine in your hands, attempting to twist it into a little paper rose, when, out of nowhere, a voice spoke up from right beside you.

(An actual voice. Not a whisper, nor a mirage, but a true resonance of sound.)

It talked like it had been there all the while, and you were left with the impression that it thought you were blind (or deaf, or stupid) not to have noticed it. It spoke in a demanding inflexion, much like the middle-aged female antagonists in shows you once glued yourself in watching. Startled, but wary, you did not reply to it, nor deign it with even the slightest change in attitude, even as the hairs on the back of your neck stood up and your breathing became just a bit heavier.

(Something will end, and now, something begins.)

"A simple thing, alone in the world." It whispered.

You felt your heart rate pick up by the slightest bit.

"Pretty little child, sweet little child, dead little child—" it taunted, "aberration."

The words rang inside your mind.

(Pretty—of course.

Sweet—you need to be.

Dead—hmm.)

Aberration, aberration, aberration.

(All wrong, all wrong. Thief, thief, thief.)

(You are not meant to exist.)

A small twitch settled on the left corner of your lips, and you did not know whether or not to form an expression of amusement.

It was not that the voice was wrong. You knew, the best of all, just how apt its words had been to describe what you were. You deigned to live again, without truly paying for a toll, and so, now, you must suffer in madness.

Still, as you tried to distract yourself with origami, you could not help but wonder: surely, you would not have gone so…senseless, at such an early age? The whispers were one thing. You allowed yourself some quirks, but you did not want to appear clinically insane. A fully-fledged voice would change the course of your living entirely.

(The reincarnation in itself is already perdition come alive, no matter how much you attempt to smother the idea.)

(Sometimes, you still wonder if you are dreaming.)

"Am I?" You whispered to yourself.

Perhaps this truly was your mind's way of rationalising the absurdity of the afterlife.

Dreams, whispers, and now…another illusion?

But the voice seemed to have other thoughts.

"Hm? Yes, you are." It crooned. "Curious, isn't it, that a small mistake costs so much?"

"Sure."

You paused.

You were not truly paying much attention to the voice itself, until suddenly there was the feeling of a hand on you, a feather-light sensation brushing against the flesh of your arms—like ice and stone in your skin—and you dropped your origami, heart in your throat, immediately turning around to see—

Nothing.

What?

(Silly, silly, silly girl.)

Your eyes were wide as they looked around in the living room.

But nothing stood there, not even a single object out of place. Absolutely nothing that could have spoken to you when your back was turned. Light and Sachiko were still in the hallway, and the television had not been turned on to begin with. The windows behind the couch were opened earlier in the morning, but you doubted the voice could have come from outside the house.

It sounded otherworldly. A bit with a raspy-airy quality to it, almost resembling a woman. When you listened to it, in the beginning, it spoke as if it understood you—like it knew all of your secrets, like it was your very creator, and all your troubles merely a passing thought. It seemed old, sharp, and perhaps condescending, akin to a wily mother asserting she knew what was best for her own child.

And most of all, loud. The voice was an actual intonation of words and sentences, not just a nonsensical smattering of mutters and whispers in the wind.

You heard it. You knew you did.

It was there.

You swallowed nervously.

After a few seconds, you took a small breath in, and turned back to your origami. It dropped to the floor when you had looked for the source of your confusion and alarm.

At the same time you picked it up, Light came running into the room. You spared him a glance. He was holding up one of your jackets, a soft green thing with embroidered white waves at the hem. The boy looked out of breath as he bounced on his feet, giggling, oblivious to your previous panic.

"Dawn-Dawn! C'mon, Mom'll take us shopping! To buy stuff for Baby Yu-Yu!"

You snorted, choosing to ignore the growing paranoia inside your head.

"Baby Yu-Yu?"

"Well, yeah." He huffed. "Everyone calls you Dawn-Dawn. And I'm Rai-Rai. Now the baby gets one too! But Baby Sa-Sa just sounds weird."

He handed you your jacket. You rolled your eyes, but took the garment nevertheless, and set the paper rose on the table.

"Fine. Let's go. Li-Li, help with my jacket?"

Light obliged and began chattering about the list of things the three of you would be buying at the department store.

But you could not forget the apprehension in your stomach, nor the terror that suddenly gripped your heart. It was a new agitation, once again, and you had to keep looking over your shoulder for anything more incriminating.

I fucking hate this.

(Something will end, and something now begins, and you are left reeling.)

(You must accept it for what it is.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

It became tiring, quickly enough. The voice came back, and it did nothing but mock you, acting as though it were enraged or resentful, like you possessed something it did not. But that did not stop you from talking to it from time to time. You had nothing else to do aside from acting like a child, so, here, you let yourself go.

('Look at how desperate it's become.'

'Does that mean it can hear us?'

'Likely.'

'How rude, to ignore us then.'

'But would it understand, is the question.'

'How so? If it can hear—and see—then it probably knows we're here.'

'Yes, but can it actually comprehend what it's seeing and hearing?'

'Ooh, interesting theory. Suppose we'll just have to wait.')

You knew it was not healthy—but you felt more compelled to it than the whispers themselves, like it was a presence you could not deny.

You enjoyed questioning and bantering with it. But sometimes, when you snuggled yourself between your brother's arms as you slept, you thought about letting yourself fall apart—about letting this voice ruin the image of Dawn Yagami you had quietly crafted, about seeing how far it would push you before everything finally snapped. And when you did, you wondered if you could put yourself back together again without help, without other people. You puzzled on the notion of what it would take to build it all over again.

In a moment of fleeting wistfulness, you were reminded of percentages, and then imagined that there was a possibility of no return. After all, you could still be dreaming, you could still live to be a form within your own imagination. And that possibility was exactly what drove you to keep going with your life, you mused.

Because what would it feel like, when you reached that inevitable outcome? When everything was well and truly over? When this perception of reality ceased to be?

(When only the permanence of being remains?)

You briefly pondered if this is what others who were diagnosed felt like. This was not maladaptive daydreaming. It was not even a play-pretend with imaginary friends. Before, when you talked and thought to yourself, the voices you thought of were literally silent, like phantom limbs inside your own mind. They did not exist as actual auditory hallucinations which seemed to echo outside of your own ears.

The voice hurt you in a way you did not think you would feel—it was nearly familiar to you in a way that made you ache, like a nostalgia you could not return to. You regretted listening to it more often than you think.

But still, it stayed, and you…kept conversing with it.

('Why won't it talk to us?'

'You don't really say anything interesting.'

'Yes, I do!'

'Quiet, you fool.'

'I still think we're good conversationalists.'

'And I think you don't even know what that word means.'

'Just talk about something else, both of you, my head is ringing.'

'I still think we're more interesting that whatever that thing is doing!')

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Contentment was a thing you never thought you would be able to achieve, even in the past. Always, always, you moved too fast for others—and the rest of the world mattered only as a set of people and events that never managed to pace itself along. You existed in a space of your own, in a sphere of abstractions which trampled all that you paid no mind to.

Ever infinite was the world, but ever persistent you became, especially in the face of such a great idea. If you could make your mark on it, you thought, perhaps a dent into the lives of people or a mention in social circles, you might have had something to boast of—no matter its reception nor lasting effects.

As you clutched onto your mother's skirts, you could not help but to wish for more; to achieve that desire for tranquillity and maintain it. You had it in the earliest days of your rebirth, and you wanted it to return. It was a foolish undertaking, you knew, but you did not stop yourself from doing so.

(You want something you do to matter, even just this once. There is much in your heart and your head, but one thing that remains is that need for a better tomorrow—a promise that you can go through the next day.)

"How about this, Dawn-Dawn?" Your mother gestured to several potted plants by the edge of the fence. "Have I told you what flower this is?"

You reached out to feel the petals. The bloom was new, small and vibrant, sweet and smooth underneath the summer sun. It slipped from your fingers with a blow from the winds.

"Shobu, Mama." You looked up at her.

Sachiko nodded, satisfied, and made to prepare the gardening materials in her possession. You moved to help the woman, dragging out the heavy wooden stool from near the front door and to the spot by the gate. She sat down with a grunt, thanking you as she put gardening gloves on.

You copied her actions, slipping on a children's size pair of the accessory.

"We're going to cut out a few of these for your grandmother—she's asking for a couple of stems."

"Oh! Is that why Papa got so many plastic bags?"

She hummed. "Yes."

"'Kay, Mama. So, how do we cut 'em?"

"Here."

Sachiko brought out her gardening scissors, then gave you a normal pair. She positioned hers near the base of a stem on an iris, tilted at a steep angle so as to keep the edge of the plant sharp when it was cut.

This feels nice, you mused as you observed her, it's almost…slow, so to speak. Like a short break?

It was such a mundane thing to do, but the silence as you continued with your task settled like a soft breeze. The moment presented an image of normalcy amidst your turmoil—a chance to pause, a secondary reprieve to wall you away from your own worries. You rather liked it. It reminded you of that period of time in the womb, when nothing else existed for you to be agonised by. And, amongst other things, it was also quiet.

(She will not see this for what it is. This is only another scene in time for her, where this is the last balance you get, before everything derails.)

(Fractions of the truth—of your own small sense of honour—implore you to speak, to let them out into the world. They scutter about in your mind, like the last lingering touches of a dying man when the air leaves him. You ignore them, tongue-tied. You know nothing of how to help them, or even yourself.)

You and your mother snipped at the blue-violet flowers, automatic as you bent over for more stems to collect. Then, a few seconds passed, and you lit up in small excitement when you spied a butterfly hovering near the flowers. There, it fluttered about; wings a beautiful smattering of amber and deep purple, lined with black. The woman took no notice of it, and nudged you back to attention when your mind wandered for too long.

(Gentle, so soft, it glides along.)

Contentment was never something you hoped much, or dared to hope much to receive. It had been out of reach, for someone such as you—who passed life by with nothing more than adrenaline and feral desperation, who would have had little to no choice but to follow along the wildness of the environment that surrounded you.

You learned, you adapted, and you went on.

That was it, that was all you knew how to do.

(Fighting, freeing, then fleeing.)

(You loathe final farewells.)

Fitting into another role should have been more difficult—and as you stood there, trading gentle smiles with your mother, you thought that the budding nausea would be well-deserved.

You did not crave the pain, but still, you held onto the belief that it became warranted.

This is all your fault.

(There is a strange fluctuation between what you want and what you have to do, versus what you could not hope to stop and what you can do. It is teasing, almost volatile, and so very harsh.)

Sachiko handed you a plastic bag to store the cut stems into. You accepted the item, carefully putting the irises inside so as not to rip the material. You helped her up, steadying her when she walked over to another set of pots, bringing the stool with you.

"We'll also be sending them some soil and seeds."

"Okay, Mama."

(Regardless, you still commit to the goodbye, because it is the kindest thing you can do, now. And then, that butterfly jumps away, pushing its wings back and forth as it goes off into the sky—maybe to another garden, maybe to the windshield of a car. You wonder, if you are much like it, will you see the world as it does? With eyes exposed to ultraviolet and other colours unknown?)

(No—no, that is not right…it witnesses its own existence with eyes that know too much, and a constitution that hardly even allows it more than a month to live. There, there you are, but you have all the choices in the world to fix your mistake. The butterfly can only go on as its body dictates it to be—but you have the chance to do so much more. That is the difference, and that is why you will never have freedom like it does.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Sometimes, when your dreams faded, you chased them, forlorn. While you would not be the saddest or angriest about having to witness them end, you admitted that you still wanted to remember them.

(It is something to keep you going, at the very least, something to remain that will tell you of all you have to lose.)

They followed no set pattern—whether or not they devolved into nightmares, an act of chance amongst most days—but they shared common themes: displacement, and perhaps motherhood. It was fitting, surely, but that did not do much to reassure you. And so, it followed; you awoke with the barest of whispers on your lips and a light trail of tears on your cheeks, then you would turn on your side and cuddle up into either your brother or your parent's chests and continue your slumber.

Once, Sōichirō did catch you shaken from a terror. He immediately pulled you into an embrace, stroking your head as you quietly sobbed into his shoulder. He rocked you back and forth on his lap, humming, listening to your muttered confessions about the nightmares. It repeated, and so, he took it upon himself to soothe you when they happened.

And always, he asked you the same thing when you had these fits of depression.

"Would you like to go around the city with me, Little Red?"

Walk or ride, he said, roam Shinjuku to get your mind off what's bothering you.

Each time, you accepted, and as more days passed, it became routine. You would do it when Light and Sachiko were still asleep, before other people went about with their matutinal activities.

Sometimes, Sōichirō sat you on the front of his motorcycle, slowly zooming through the streets of Shinjuku as you did nothing but feel the cold morning winds on your face. The feel pulled you into a state of heaven, a quick whirl into numbness.

Sometimes, he took you to several shops around the city and bought you sweet breads, warming your fingers and your heart as he distracted you. The two of you bantered about one thing or the other, spoke of your days and the things you wanted to do.

Sometimes, the man also told you stories of your family; his sister, Sachiko's parents, perhaps even his childhood. They, most of all, were the ones to ground you back into reality—but you supposed not much else could be done, then.

And so, it became a comfort you did not know you needed. It was painfully…nostalgic. Only by a little, you resented the fact that it reminded you of another period of your life long gone. Then, the feeling went away, and you decided to be happy instead.

"Here, sweet girl," your father chuckled at one point, "have some konpeito."

You gasped, fingers quickly grabbing at the sweets, then shot him a suspicious look.

"Why'd you have konpeito in the motor?"

"What? Can't I have some backup?"

"Yeah, but why in the motor?"

"Why not?"

"'Cause that's weird, Papa."

He only laughed, and pulled you close to his chest, watching dawn break on a random bench in his favourite park. You wrapped your arms around him, breathed in his scent and memorised it, sighing as you closed your eyes. You burrowed into his corduroy jacket, wrapping the large material around your body.

What you considered the best of all in this routine of yours was that…well, the weight of most things also disappeared. The whispers were still there, and you still sensed some weird energies on the edge of your peripherals when you went on these strolls and rides with your father. But they became manageable, moreso when you kept yourself in the warmth of his love.

Let it last, you looked up at the fading stars and the rising sun, please, just once.

But the dreams never left, and you did not know why you kept longing for such.

"Are you going back to sleep when we return?"

"No, Papa. I wanna help with chores."

"Sure thing, sweet girl."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Parmenides paused from writing on his wax tablet as he overheard a few other men talking amongst themselves at the square. Nary of them noticed him as his back was turned, but he listened with rapt attention while they recounted their tales.

"The old man has done it, my friend," one of them snorted as he adjusted the cloth of his toga, "they found him in the field—hardly even recognised his body. The hounds mutilated every single bit of his flesh."

Another person groaned in disgust. "He holds no favour from me, though I pray he finds peace with the gods. May Lord Hades judge him fairly."

The others murmured their agreements. The philosopher blinked. Immediately, he knew who the men were discussing, having thought of the person in question not even mere moments ago. Heraclitus had ambled off with an awkward gait, struggling with the condition that plagued him for months now, and he had rolled his eyes when the man cursed him under his breath.

Heraclitus? Heraclitus is dead? Parmenides swallowed to keep himself back from whispering his adversary's name out loud.

I would have paid you my respect, amathés, had you not gone off so quickly from our last dialogue.

…

"You've heard the news, I take it?" Hummed Zeno as he sat down on a boulder.

He and his mentor were in a spot of shade by a tree, just outside the theatre. The other man cast a glance at a gaggle of children, who laughed at a chicken clucking in agitation near a pond.

"At the square. Is there truth to it?"

"It is as true and as fantastical as the rumours make it out to be, I'm afraid."

Parmenides sighed, then took a seat beside his friend. "It's strange. I assumed I would have, by the very least, given him one last argument."

Zeno snorted. "Gods give him rest. The weeping philosopher has cried his last tears—would you not give him this closure?"

"Ah, but would you call it closure? Would an apology have truly given him his peace of mind?"

The younger man stared off into nothing. "I suppose we can never know, now."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(Slowly, bitterly, you learn to acknowledge your fault.)

(You weep into the silence of the night.)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The song quoted during the celebration scene is Tentōmushi no Samba by Cherish. It's been stuck in my head for days now, so I wrote this chapter in honour of that.

Also, I combined Parmenides and Zeno's philosophies together because of how tied-in they were. While something similar happened with the Milesian school of thought (them being a set, that is), their main ideas were still different.

Amathés means fool in the ancient Greek language.

⸺

FACT OF THE DAY: Some state that Parmenides was the founder of ontology, a branch of metaphysics that dealt with the nature of being. Aristotle later quotes Zeno as the founder of dialectic, a type of argumentation between parties that seeks truth without the need for the persuasion of an audience.