GOD IS NOT A PUPPETEER

Eyes On Your Feet — IV

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Empedocles of Acragas

Empedocles, the next major philosopher who followed after Zeno, suggested the idea of the four elements as the arche.

He believed that all things in the universe were made up of a combination of water, air, fire, and earth; arguing that these four elements were the basic building blocks of all things in the universe, and that they became responsible for all change and transformation in the universe. He took inspiration from the ideas of his predecessors and transformed them into a single, unified statement.

Many other philosophers reacted critically to his ideas. Some saw his view of the four elements as being too simplistic, and ignoring the fact that there existed many different types of matter in the universe. Others voiced their opinion on Empedocles' view as being too focused on the material world, and not acknowledging the importance of the mind and consciousness.

However, while they disagreed with Empedocles' ideas, they also recognised its importance as one of the first attempts to explain the universe in a systematic and rational way.

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The problem with enlightenment—or what could pass off as that, and everything else that came with it—you thought, was that a person could never hope to please everyone else in the way they wanted to. Always, there would be a non-believer, someone to contradict or even disfavour what they said.

Enlightenment did not equate to happiness. Knowledge did not mean convenience. And when it came to the sceptical person, their doubt of reality paved the way to more possibilities. On other times, the issue lied in the fact that the truth sounded too fantastical, that the fiction of a situation was a likelier answer in response to a question. And so, they argued against what they knew, even if their challenge could or would be wrong.

There were a lot of things you did not account for. Some of them, you would admit, could hardly be judged as anything worth mentioning in the original narrative. But taking into consideration your presence here, now, you wished you had a better grasp of what to know and what to do. You had many mysteries to unravel, many truths you did not want to hear or think of, but had to, anyway.

(And you will do so, if only to take another step into time and make it pass.)

(You move unwittingly, and when you realise it, unwillingly. But you go on.)

You looked at yourself in the mirror once more, and stared for a while longer than you bothered to regard.

"There's a lot of things wrong with you," you whispered, in a language you once prided yourself in speaking, now only a myriad of words you should not have known, "and there's so much more to come."

A heavy sigh made its way out of you, and in a moment of weakness, you fell to your knees, covering your mouth when the cry that long since bubbled in your chest slipped out. Your fingers tightened in their grip, and they clasped together as if in prayer.

(Prayer for what? Your mind scoffs, and you tear yourself between the motions of grinning and snarling. You've seen this coming.)

(Lament it all you want, you still do not change anything.)

"I'm sorry." You said to no one in particular. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

(There is much you know, still, and much yet you are to be responsible for.)

You knew, right now, that you verged on the lines of ferality—and it was all a matter of control, then, a race against your own composure. In a gradiation, you shook with despair, and the only thing left behind was the fatigue from pretence. It stayed as your last effort, your final act of kindness, in this mess, to struggle for the sake of it.

(So much to know, so much yet to see.)

(You foolish little girl.)

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('The mother looks radiant, I'll admit.'

'Motherhood becomes her?'

'I suppose.'

'Shame about this, though.'

'What's it doing, now?'

'Listening, obviously.'

'Has this practice not changed?'

'Imagine if we could reproduce. HA!')

"Baby Sayu, Baby Sayu, Baby Sayu," you chanted once again as you gently laid your head upon your mother's stomach, "pretty, pretty, pretty."

(You hear your own heartbeat in your ears.)

Sachiko giggled as she ran a hand through your hair. The woman hummed in response to your call, mentioning something or the other about babies listening to the outside world while they still remained in the womb. You smiled in response to her words, recalling the voices that you once delighted in hearing while asleep. That should have been where you stayed—you traced a finger on her stomach, and Light ran over to try listening to his new sister as well—you would have been content in slumber. Noise in the waking world was all too troublesome, and you did not always respond to them in kind thought.

"Can Baby Yu-Yu really hear us, Mom?" Light gazed up at her in wonder. "Can she? Can she? That's so cool!"

"That's what doctors say. You know, your sister might even be able to feel you too!" You two gasped in surprise and excitement at this. "Here, place your hand there. That's where I always hold my tummy. Do you want to tell Sayu anything?"

I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.

(The apology is an empty thing, and it stretches out into nothing more than a sentiment swirling all around inside your head.)

You nodded, eager, and copied your brother's motions when he rubbed Sachiko's stomach. He looked so ecstatic, you noted ruefully.

"You saw your father doing the same, right? It's why he's always keeping his hand there when we sleep."

This was something you could not compare to what you knew from the past. The…the deception of the introspective; like putting a hand above a toddler's head and turning it to face their reflection in the mirror, and them seeing what had always been there: a child that knew nothing of the world. This was what you twitched so much at thinking of—a self-monitoring you could not even pull off well.

As you felt the babe kick, with only the layers of skin separating its being from the outer reality of the utero, you closed your eyes. You did not want to see Light or Sachiko's joy. Not now, not now.

('Eyes open, eyes closed, they still stay unseeing—'

'The woman looks punchable. You can't tell me you haven't entertained that thought, at least once.'

'Why would you even—'

'You're right, she does—oh, that's good.')

('What d'you think'll happen once this ends?'

'Little Pest spirals into depression?'

'No, I meant the woman and her babe.'

'Oh. Who knows?')

You sighed, and you pretended it was one born out of happiness. You joined your brother in his childish laughter, so innocent—unknowing—and poked at his sides. His mirth became even louder, and you calmed down into a low snicker when your mother flicked you on the forehead.

The two of you wrapped your hands around her, and you buried your face into her neck.

(Iris and hibiscus.)

"I'm so happy." Sachiko murmured, eyes glassy. "I'm so happy."

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(You start as water, as a wet creature within your mother's womb.)

Your dreams worsened when the voice made its existence known. Now, with the whispers in the back of your mind, it was all you could do to keep yourself upright as the last stage of the countdown neared.

('Poor little thing, dead little thing.'

'Darling child, aberration, ha!'

'Does the fault really lie with it?'

'And where else would you place the blame?')

('What do you think's on the other side?'

'But we're on the other side.'

'No, the other other side.'

'What else of an other other side is even there?')

Sometimes, the voice itself mocked you for being a coward, for waking up from the nightmares plaguing your head. It threw in a derisive comment here and there, and although you never truly gave it the satisfaction of your own reactions, it did make you consider your role in this cursed family.

"Everyday, you wake up, and for what? Most of your kind would have preferred the peace in eternal slumber."

You were an anomaly, something unresolved and unexplained. Many have tried, over the years—they made attempts to give reason to the universe, and all that resided within it; they formed their theories about the elements, the sun and the stars, the breath of life, the animals on earth. But none have come this far to tell a story itself. Religions existed, but until a unified thought was granted acceptance, only the mysterious and incoherent stood.

There you were, in the middle of it all, screaming and sobbing into an endless space.

"Aren't you proud?" It purred, chuckling. "Aren't you happy, little thief?"

Softly, you asked your father not to tell anyone else of the dreams. As expected, he became hesitant at that statement, but he acquiesced. Light and Sachiko remained unaware of your predicament, and you intended to keep it that way. They did not need to know, they did not need to be burdened with whatever form of ego you had once been so glad at achieving.

(But they are, and you cannot stop yourself from flinching every time.)

(Your fault, your fault, your fault.)

On one other instance, as your family busied themselves in the kitchen to prepare the table for dinner, you excused yourself for a moment. To the bathroom you went, and you vomited; heaving and gasping and shaking and—

It never stops.

(There is a corpse clawing its way out of the womb, and then there is a husk, and then there is only a cavity where life used to be. A deformed abnormality rages, its wailing shrill and disturbing. It reaches towards you. Then, it drowns in an abyss—and you cannot decide if it is your own death, or the erasure of another child.)

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You were left with Sachiko in the house while Sōichirō attended to Light as they went through his paperwork for the start of kindergarten. Currently, you sprawled yourself on the living room floor, wasting away scratch papers as she busied herself with the laundry in the backyard.

Your habit of doodling had spiralled into an unrelenting need to move your hands, and the couple had taken it upon themselves to provide as much material as they possibly could before you moved to defacing the walls of the house with paints and crayons. The woman snickered when her husband found the bedroom door vandalised with red marker displays of flowers and eyes, and little stick people at the bottom.

This particular set of scribbles was meant to be a depiction of your most recent visions.

(A white sun shines bright behind a lone scarecrow in a field. You see it from inside the windows of a car. It is jumping, jumping, jumping. Smiling. Staring. And just that. Despite your unease, you could not find it in yourself to look away.)

(The air is stolen from you.)

You let your feet wiggle in the air as you doodled, absently feeling the coldness on your toes, giggling here and there for no particular reason as you mixed random colours together.

"Your life is boring. Even death does not seem like much of a nightmare in contrast to this."

(Until it is. It is both and not at all. But here you are.)

(It is not a nightmare—until you cannot breathe, until your body shuts down, until everything you know is taken away from you.)

You rolled onto your side.

"It's somethin', I guess." You mumbled.

"You can content yourself with your coloured sticks in this meagre hovel?"

('What's it drawing?'

'It looks like Lord Kuebiko.'

'It's a horrible depiction of him, then.'

'Eh. Consider the effort, I suppose.')

('Look at this one!'

'Which?'

'The paper with the pig and the peacock.'

'That's a chicken, you idiot.')

"What gives you the drive to draw, anyway?"

You did not reply to the voice, instead humming and singing the introduction of a song from your old life. Some of the words still slurred on your tongue, but you managed to deliver them without much issue.

"T'my loving Mom and Dad, I'm sorry—I'm to blame."

You lined down the scarecrow.

It was an ugly canvas thing, all strawy and deformed, with stuffing that threatened to burst from the seams of its dark blue kimono and dot-sized bugs that crawled from its neck. On the top of its head, a matching kasa sat nearly in tatters. The pole it hung on bent with the wind. In the dream, it wobbled by the edge of a beaten dirt road, as if debating whether or not to make an approach.

You simply remained frozen in the car seat, alone with nothing but the air-conditioned cold for company. You did not fear the scarecrow, though you were curious about its presence. The two of you kept your gazes trained on one another, then the air turned into black mist, and the scene was overcome by darkness.

"Knees weak and crum-ling, thum' pressed and bitt'n 'way."

The dream ended the way some of the others did. Quiet, muted, almost eerie. In most of the others, you watched on, doing nothing, like you were a mere spectator who only happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. There was no grand reveal, no sudden screaming fit, no ghastly looming monstrosity; calmer than what you had become accustomed to.

You simply woke up with a slight trickle of sweat along your nape, and a light trail of tears on your cheeks. It was not that you felt sad, no—but always, when you opened your eyes, a near-suffocating pressure in your chest made itself known, like some kind of grief you could not explain.

The scarecrow stood out the most to you, however.

"To my brother, sister, and the rest: I'll see you 'round." Your hands were beginning to feel clammy after drawing for almost an hour. But still, you kept on singing and scribbling, hoping to finish your work, unminding of your environment. They ached, but you ignored it, and they continued to move about. "My sole is black-ning—I'm break-in' all'f it down. La-la, la-la, la-la. Hmm, hmm."

Everything else always quieted when you sang; neither the whispers nor the voice bothered you as you did it. You would take that small mercy, because then, the words in your throat stepped out with truth in a way that you could control. Music was a familiar thing, and even if no one understood the meaning behind your songs, you had that comfort with you.

"And what does honesty get-cha? Honesty doesn't pay! What does honesty get-cha? Honesty doesn't pay at all!"

You grinned down at the image of the scarecrow you made. Your drawing was as freakish as the ones children in those horror movies—yet to exist—loved to make. Just as ugly and messy as an unstable three-year-old's art was expected to be. Somehow, this made you even more stupidly pleased.

"That…was a very sad song, Dawn-Dawn."

You gasped in surprise, looking up at the form of Sachiko frowning by the living room's doorframe. She was staring at your drawings, but you knew the woman was not thinking about them.

Not knowing what else to say, you decided to let a childish reaction slip.

"Sorry, Mama."

She went over to where you positioned yourself on the floor, kneeling and groaning a bit as she set herself down. She peered over the things you made as the two of you sat in silence. Your mother seemed questioning, but you made no move to offer your thoughts.

There had been a moment of urgency, just then, a near-spill of the truth from your mouth, like gasoline swirling dangerously inside its tank. But you caught yourself at the last second—unsure, afraid. And so, you kept your lips as they were; only smiling, and with a brightness in your eyes that you did not feel.

After gently taking one of your other works, a chaotic scribble of nipa huts and the twelve zodiac animals in blue ink, she spared your coloured scarecrow a curious glance.

"I thought you'd be enjoying something like Rai-Rai's TV shows."

You huffed. "But Sazae-san's boring. I want action."

Sachiko giggled, lightly pinching your nose. "Nuh-uh. You've been watching too much Takeshi's Castle with your father."

"But 'Keshi's nice. I wanna do it too. Or watch Papa run 'nto walls."

This time, her laugh was loud and free, and you found yourself joining in.

How sweet, you hummed, as she'd been when I'd still been a fœtus, as she is when she looks at Li-Li and I, as she'll always be in memory.

"Silly, silly," she chided, "don't be mean to Papa."

"Okay. Mama can do it for me."

"Dawn-Dawn!"

You simply grinned, returning to your drawing as soon as she calmed down. From your peripheral, you saw her smile dim when she moved to ask her next question. Sachiko sighed.

"Where did you learn that song, Dawn-Dawn?"

You pouted down at your papers, refusing to look her in the eyes.

"I dunno. Just heard it."

('Heard it where? In its head?'

'Oh, boo—it was actually nice.'

'You liked that?'

'It does have a pretty voice, you know.'

'And what a good thing that is—if I had to hear you sing one more time—'

'Shut up! It's not that bad! I can carry a tune, you know!'

'Sure—the tune of a thousand wailing souls.'

'The tune of hellfire and heavenly judgement, mind you!')

Sachiko looked at you with a contemplative expression, brows slightly furrowed.

You decided that you did not like it one bit.

They did not always know what to do with you. Sōichirō, especially—for all the times you could not fathom something your eyes would not see and your body would always fear, for everything you would not tell him—but it was not as if Sachiko was doing any better. Sometimes, you were too quiet, too tense, too headstrong. Too happy, even when they suspected something else at play, though you assumed that the façade hid your anxieties.

While Light progressed at a rapid pace, faster than most other children his age, he still retained the innocence of youth. His mind was a blank slate upon birth—tabula rasa, your mind whispered. You ignored it.

But it stood to fact; the human mind received knowledge and forms based on experience alone, without any pre-existing innate ideas which served as a starting point. Light looked at the world with such wonder and always hoped for the best; a perfect little boy with so much to discover and not nearly enough time to know, flitting to and fro in his life like it was his own playpen. He understood things as they came to him, because his mind was new.

And you, well, it was not as if you did not already know the things Sachiko and Sōichirō exposed you to. You were not a toddler when you died—you were on the cusp of adolescence. Most of what you had to relearn existed as memories to revisit and redo. Your tendency of getting lost in your head, however, was noted as a bit strange—your penchant for singing non-existent songs even moreso, though they saw it as a quirk you had.

And every once in a while, when you found yourself falling back on old habits and reactions, the adults in the household turned to you with odd looks in their eyes. You paid them no heed, always going about as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Such was the case, now. But that did not mean you wanted to be subject to the actual questioning.

Sachiko was looking at one of your more elaborate drawings. Another dream. The voice hummed in what seemed to be interest.

(There is a maiden, and then there is a mother. There is a whore, and then there is a witch. All the women overlap.)

On the page she held, a mirror reflected the ideal female figure; drawn with pink crayons, and wrapped in violent red scratches of ink. There were deep indentations on the paper. She stared at it, frowning and biting her lip with an intense emotion you could not place. Worry fed on you even more.

"Is…was my song bad, Mama?"

She was startled.

"No! No, but you surprised me, is all."

You giggled, hoping it would do anything to distract her. "Sorry again, Mama."

The woman huffed, but relented. She sat closer to you, pulling you into her side as she fiddled with your papers in hand. You rolled over and placed your head in her lap, minding her stomach as you made an attempt at a hug.

"It's alright, Dawn-Dawn. But tell me if you think something's wrong, okay?"

You smiled.

Tabula rasa, tabula rasa, tabula rasa, the words kept repeating inside your head—you were not supposed to know much about the world, yet. Even the mere thought of a white lie should not exist in your mind. But you had been bolstered by your past, and you savoured your memories just as much as you detested them. Perhaps you could add the stress of your current dilemma to that.

This woman beside you knew you have been feeling off lately, somehow, although she had no clue as to why or by how much. She did not know how deep your deception ran, and you had no immediate desire to tell her about it.

"Do you lie to your family on a daily basis?" The voice made itself known once more.

It sounded entertained. Gleeful, almost.

You lowered your eyes.

"Mm. 'Kay. I'll be fine, Mama. Promise."

You thought you were very good at lying.

You could be a very convincing actor, or you were a bitter little girl, and none of these strangers would ever know the difference. You have lied to yourself, and to the world—and it has finally come to a point where you have made it so believable, that there was no more distinction, regardless of the actual truth. You were a dreamer before you were a poet, and you were a liar before you got what you wanted.

Back then, it had been your second nature.

(Thief, thief, thief.)

Now, it existed to be the only thing Dawn Yagami would ever know.

("You little shit, you're not supposed to be here—")

For years, you may cry. Or try to. You could and would allow yourself to feel, even if just a bit. But you would never let yourself forget how little value your tears held, nor how fragile your songs and scribbles truly were.

(The world is made from the dreams and ambitions of other people. Here and now, you are a voice in the wind—a whisper in the chaos, another lost wanderer in the clouds.)

(You are not allowed to breathe.)

"It's okay, Dawn-Dawn. I'll love you no matter what." Sachiko smiled.

"Love?"

Love.

"Curious and curiouser."

There was no love for people like you.

('What love does a dead thing have to give?'

'The love of a mother, apparently.'

'A dead one, ha!'

'The aberration won't take to that kindly.'

'Its kind is truly composed of parasites, isn't it? The last one had a similar experience.'

'Now, this is a story I've never heard. Tell me more!'

'If my hunch is correct, then I won't need to. This one's connected to her.'

'This is the most fun I've had in centuries.')

You closed your eyes and submitted yourself to Sachiko's embrace, but stayed silent.

(Where there is no heaven to speak of, there is no forgiveness to seek.)

(Take reality as it is.)

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You liked to think you knew what the future held, but those numbers have damned you.

(Something tastes like ashes in your mouth.)

It would not be the first time it happened.

(Chaotic your soul may be, but the world is much older and far wilder than you can ever hope to become.)

In honour of tradition, you lit up a candle. You watched, eyes downcast, as the small flame cast large shadows inside the loneliness of the room; the late afternoon light accentuating the contrast between things. The fire glowed red in the dark, and you forced out an exhale.

If…when all this ends, you fell to your knees before your family's Buddhist altar, tell me it gets better.

The bronze statue in front of you kept smiling, and you supposed you would not be getting answers any time soon.

Still, as you levelled your eyes at it—this depiction of a man who sought out happiness through enlightenment, this paragon of Eastern ideals—you wished something, or perhaps, someone, would be waiting for you on the other side of your tribulations. Whether it came after your next death, or after this ordeal, you hoped for someone—anyone—to see you, and understand.

(Heat surrounds you, and the fading sunlight swallows everything in sight. Then, dusk.)

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(The earth beneath you, the stability you once contented yourself with, dissolves.)

You would say that strangers existed to be the most fascinating sort of persons to talk to. Ultimately, they were where the most valuable stories and conversations can come from. Everything was made of stories, in a sense—and strangers often were the ones to tell others the stories that many needed to hear. Fascinating, how they all came together under the idea of the human condition—how all lived together, but also all lived isolated, lonely, individual lives as well. Many grappled with this concept as one of the most central questions that every individual faced: that their life and their existence were theirs, and that there were other lives and other histories surrounding them.

It was one of the most maddening things to consider.

To know your life was but one amongst billions—that this world existed before you, and this world will go on when you die, and that there were many others, similar to you, will live and die, too—the sheer scale of it made you want to vomit. But then, it would hurt worse when you correlated it to people close to you, would it not?

(Such a fickle balance.)

This is why humans are so complex—you mused, as you rushed to sit in the backseat with your mother and brother, as your father quickly drove the entire family to the hospital—this level of inner conflict is what makes it so hard to find the one conclusion to life.

Feelings of isolation and fear could be so completely footed against the love and empathy for others. Lives were meaningless to the entirety of existence, but precious to the people closest to the individual. Humans were always aware of this, and always had to contend with this paradox within themselves.

(The earth you lay on shatters.)

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You leaned against the cheap velvet cushion in the waiting area, lips pulled into a frown. Tired of waiting, your brother fidgeted beside you. Paying him no mind, you sighed and grunted in response to his occasional complaint, too preoccupied in your own thoughts.

I'm currently having an existential crisis, Li-Li, please and thank you.

If the meaning of existence could not be given a definite answer in any way, how would one even begin to understand their own purpose? In a world where one never ascertained their own purpose, then, were they ever truly free?

But therein lied the issue. If people had been given a purpose for existing, then were they ever truly free in the first place? That statement came back in a circle: if, by either divine or natural cause, they were given form because they served a certain use, then how could they ever consider themselves free, when their reason for existence had already been dictated by another?

In that sense, it could even be said that those who had no purpose were freer than those who did, because then, they possessed the option of choice. Because they were not limited to anything, they might be allowed to do what they wished with themselves. So, then, one must assume that if creatures were given a purpose, then they would not have freedom.

They would be limited to their role, and that alone, regardless of how they perceived it.

Then, in this case, would you truly be at liberty if you had not been given that reason for existing? Or was your freedom found in the acceptance that you did not know if there was a purpose?

(May your enlightenment actually, in fact, just lie in your very ignorance? If you have no prior knowledge of what you do now—if you are not aware of your family's role in a story you once read, and of the numbers shifting above everyone's heads; do you think you will be better off?)

Oh, but wouldn't I?

You remembered Plato's allegory of the cave. With a swipe of your pencil, you drew another set of stick people on the corner of your paper. They knelt together, huddled near a tree, speech bubbles indicating conversations as a fire raged in their background. Their leaden smiles stared up at you, and you blinked in rapid succession.

Take this: the prisoners stuck in the cave were ignorant, and they did signify stagnation, there was no doubt about that. But would you not say that they had also been freer, in a sense? In their ignorance, they had also been…happier. There was bliss in it, as many loved to say.

Assume that the purpose of the escaped prisoner, his predetermined role, was to get out of the cave and explore the world, and later on bring his wisdom to the ones still inside the cave. His existence, to bring about enlightenment. However, would you say he became truly free, in all senses of the term? Yes, he reached greater heights both in mind and body. But would you not say that his enlightenment also became a form of enslavement, in itself? He faced reality, but at what cost?

Now that reality had given him its face, he wanted to understand it, until finally he realised he could not, because reality itself was the one to shun him. He was free to experience knowledge and existence, but would you consider him free, if reality was the one to deny him his purpose?

Why am I here?

(You come to your conclusions, in that very moment. With a sinking feeling in your gut, you make your choice.)

(Truthfully, you have already done that weeks ago, but only now do you give it a solid thought.)

"They're taking so long," Light groaned as he peered over at your sketchpad—you tried to calm yourself by drawing something simpler this time, but your hands moved frantically as they made scribbles onto the rough paper—and he watched as you worked, "what's taking them so long?"

You rolled your eyes. "Babies take long, Li-Li. Papa already said that."

"But Dad already came back three times. I don't remember waiting this long for you."

"D'you even remember what it was like when you waited for me?"

"'Course I do!" He hopped off the seat, then walked in front of you. He put a hand on his chin, and tilted his head in consideration. "It wasn't this long."

"But how d'you know that? How're you sure?"

"I just do. Just am."

"That's not an answer!" You snorted, laughing a bit. You looked down at the image you made, and lightly bit at your lip. "Hmph. I'm getting hungry."

('Me too.'

'You always are.'

'I can feel the angst rolling off from it in waves.'

'Was the last one like this as well?'

'I have to admit, though, there's likely more at stake here.'

'How so?'

'Just watch.'

'But for how much longer?')

"Maybe we could ask that staff lady," and here, you both turned as one to a woman conversing with a patient near the doorway of the waiting area, "could we leave?"

Light shifted from foot to foot. "Wait here. I'll ask."

He ran off, then, and politely made his way into conversation with the stranger. You watched this interaction for a few seconds, then turned back to the drawing in your hands.

Unbidden and in a rush of thought, a tear fell down your cheek, and you hastily wiped it away.

You swallowed, evening out your breathing.

Thirteen hours, Mama.

It was better not to know why you lived, than to be enslaved by it, even if it meant greater suffering in ignorance. If there existed some external force that decreed your purpose, then you were but a prisoner within the walls of necessity. Or perhaps there was something else at play, but that notion did not cross your mind, then.

(You ignore the minute trembling of your hands. Already, you know the answer, and this space of time was only a formality.)

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Empedocles was influenced by the philosophy of Parmenides, but he developed his own approach to philosophy that became a central part of Greek thought. He argued that the universe was ultimately an interconnected and unified whole—and this was reflected in his theory of the elements, which described how the universe had been composed of those few basic building blocks of its reality.

Another thing to know about the man was that he believed in the power of love and compassion.

Empedocles' idea of both things stemmed from thus: the world was originally made of two opposing forces, love and strife. These two warred with one another and split it into four matters—water, air, fire, and earth.

Love and compassion could be a human's greatest tools for transformation and change in this world; love was an essential part of their experience on earth, and it stood to be something that they could use to create a better future for themselves and for others.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Sōichirō exited the emergency room with a tired slump and eyes that brimmed with unshed tears.

And you knew.

After all, the numbers would never lie, even in the face of blatant disbelief, or in the presence of your own excuses. You had so much time to ponder over it—over all that you could have done, but in the end, none of the solutions you conjured up made would have made any difference.

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

(It ends here, and it starts here.)

Light dropped his book and ran over to him, immediately sensing something was wrong.

"Dad! We waited! Are we allowed to see Mom now? Is she okay? Baby Yu-Yu?"

You stayed quiet and focused on your sketchpad, looking over at the pair only when your father sat with your brother beside you. The man was clearly hesitating to say anything—swallowing and stuttering over his own words.

"Your mother…I—she…she's…"

"Dad! C'mon!" Your brother urged.

"I—Light, Dawn. Listen to me. Please."

You stayed quiet, but you knew—just as you had since the last two months of Sachiko's pregnancy, just as you had when you sang sad little songs, just as you had when she lovingly asked you to teach her as well; and you stayed quiet, even as Light thrashed against Sōichirō's arms and demanded to see his mother and his new sister, even as the man could barely get his sentence out. You knew, and you turned away from speaking about the truth.

When your brother turned to you for help, you did not even blink when the words left your mouth.

"She's dead."

"Oh? You didn't count the child in her stomach."

Likely dead as well, you thought, Papa doesn't seem even half-spirited.

You paused, then inhaled sharply. Fuck. Sayu—

You have always prided yourself with your intuition: you would have never guessed she lost the power to produce the life in her womb, that she herself was soon to follow it, or something close to it—but when you looked back to the fire, further even to the earlier days of your rebirth, it made sense.

Perhaps the thought seemed like an exaggeration when it occurred, but you lived in it, now.

(You did nothing, and you watched.)

In the past, you had always prided yourself with your impartiality: and it was a fact about your person you had long since accepted, that you simply did not feel loss as deeply as others. Your memories came back to you, slowly but surely, and you hardened yourself with a will to persist, despite all that you felt.

Even before you woke up screaming in a stranger's arms, you had already been much of a greedy child—taking up the space in another's stomach and making her wither away earlier than when she was meant to pass. You would not deny you liked the comfort of it, of the fact that you had somewhere to stay, despite the lack of being. And even before that, you did not grieve for the life you left behind, nor did you regret much of it, anyway.

So, here, now, as your hands twitched and all your senses were overwhelmed by the static of reality; you forced yourself to look forward.

You did it well before. You would do it, now.

But why…why does it—I—

Why—

Why does it hurt so much?

(You push back the sob clawing its way up your throat.)

And when Light's face distorted into a horrified expression and he began stuttering rejections about what you said, when Sōichirō took his son's hands with a shaky grip and gave you a nervous glance—you decided, then, to blank out everything else in the world, and feel only amusement. You had to, and if for nothing else, then it would have let you stay upright as you did, than a shivering mess on the hospital floor.

There was a brief spike of something else in your mind as you mused over the situation, but then it was gone—and even if it made you sadder than you truly realised, angrier at yourself than you wanted to acknowledge, wilder and livider than you could ever hope to explain—you chose to disregard that ache.

(You will not give yourself that privilege—you do not deserve it.)

(Not then, not now, not ever. Not again, not anymore.)

(This is the excuse you tell yourself.)

All this time, you had known—and although there was a brief stab of pity in your chest, most of all, you were…

You—

I'm…

You were—

I'm glad.

(Now, there will be none of this wretched family left, once everything ends.)

(It is the only peace of mind you get.)

(A grieving mother, a fading daughter. The wheelchair now looks like a throne. Their gazes are blank. You walk a similar path, but in contrast to their faltering, you go on ahead with a confident stride. This is your reality, now.)

Today, the flatlining of a heart monitor pushed its weight onto another widower's shoulders. Today, the bustle of the hospital staff tried to endure the cries of a little boy in denial.

Today, on the ninth of June, in the year nineteen-eighty-nine, at one-ten in the afternoon, your first butterflies finished spreading their wings and took to the wilderness.

Today, Yagami Sachiko laid cold and grey on a hospital bed, and there would be no Yagami Sayu to exist in this world.

Today, there stood only Yagami Sōichirō—and the bright, living remnants of his dead wife.

It was a mercy, you tried to convince yourself, digging your nails into your palms, I'm sorry, Mama.

Little crescent shapes were left on the skin of your hands.

("Moon, moon," she laughs, "my darling light.")

(And so.)

The path to happiness was tainted by the husband and wife following an altered, darker kismet. It was your being there, to witness it and being a part of the collapse, that started the course to ruin. It was being the impetus that cursed two innocents, it was taking a role in this godsforsaken play; that damned you the very moment you took a breath and wailed as a babe.

But the love between that man and woman was what made you—and it had been a fault in itself, because the split seconds of your conception was what set them onto the path of change.

And now, you existed as the separation of their futures.

(You filthy little parasite.)

"See? You are all that's wrong in this family." The voice tittered. "Do you think they'd've lived, had you not been here?"

They would have. And that was the problem.

(Your fault, your fault, your fault.)

(Aberration.)

You continued drawing and humming—unminding to the tears that fell down your cheeks, and the crack in your voice.

(Keep going.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

And so, he neared the edge of the crater, huffing and puffing in exertion from all the walking he had done.

Here we are, he thought, panting, on the mouth of the gateway to divinity. They say Lord Hephaestus forges his steel in pits such as this one. But something that cannot be born to time cannot then have an end, and so, they all cease to exist.

He watched, fascinated, as the liquid fire sizzled and gurgled. Heat melted the very earth around it, and the black air around him refused to lift. Sweat ran down his skin, and he struggled to breathe.

It did not matter.

When I fall inside these holy flames, I will become a god in my own right. I will need no substance to make me, for then, I will be one with all that creates the world.

Empedocles waved to his disciples—standing much farther from him to keep watch—took off his sandals, felt the torridness of the ground with his feet, and jumped. He fell like the so-called bright figures in the sky, with their white wings and their garbs made of light, and he breathed in anticipation when he neared the pool of flames. Everyone else waited with expectant breaths, smiling with a near-manic gleam in their eyes as his body fell into the volcano.

The air went past him, and he witnessed it with exhilaration as the world before him became bigger, wider, redder, hotter—

And his body was submerged.

He did not return.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(There goes all you know, at the bottom of a pit you cannot yet reach. You push down everything you feel with your mother, and force yourself to look forward.)

(A path to happiness, you muse, now, where do we start?)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The song that Dawn sings is Tokyo Teddy Bear by Neru, performed by the vocaloid Kagamine Rin.

⸺

FACT OF THE DAY: It's unlikely that Empedocles actually jumped into a volcano, and this was probably just a tale that boosted the philosopher's reputation. He also believed in reincarnation, just like Pythagoras, whose ideas he himself followed. According to legend, some people saw the man as a god, and he styled himself so when he caught wind of this statement. Hence, the volcano thing at the end. It's a silly notion, but I loved it—it has a lot of imagery and symbolism, parts of which I didn't anymore include in the drabble because it got too long—and in this fic, we'll say the man did do exactly that.