GOD IS NOT A PUPPETEER

Eyes On Your Feet — V

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Anaxagoras of Clazomenae

Anaxagoras was a philosopher who believed that all things in the world could eventually be reduced to a singular substance: matter. His views departed from the more mainstream ideas of his time, which had been based around the theory that all things were composed of a limited number of elements: earth, water, fire, and air. Instead, Anaxagoras claimed that matter was infinite and eternal, and that it could be broken down into smaller and smaller parts—but never completely destroyed.

At a far glance into the topic, one might think that his viewpoint appeared similar to that of Democritus'—the one who suggested the idea of the atom. The main difference between both philosophies was that Anaxagoras believed that matter could be broken down indefinitely and eventually reduced to an infinitely small point of infinite density—where, in contrast, Democritus believed that there was a smallest possible unit of matter—the atom—which could not be divided any further.

The two philosophers believed in the idea of indivisibility, but they each had different ideas about what the ultimate unit of matter truly was. Anaxagoras believed that existence and life were both random and chaotic, and that there was no inherent purpose or meaning to anything. Everything in the world came to be as the result of random chance—and so, with that in mind, the individual should focus on enjoying their life rather than trying to find some deeper meaning or purpose to them.

This was a radical idea at the time, as many of the philosophical schools of the era believed in some form of divine order or purpose. His thoughts on randomness and indivisibility stood closely related, in that everything in the world could ultimately be broken down into smaller and smaller particles of matter—but never completely destroyed. This diverged from the idea of divine purpose, which suggested that everything in the world had some form of inherent order or meaning to it.

It meant that humans were free to find some kind of higher truth from methods other than understanding the connections between everything in the universe.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

On the first four nights without your mother, in a constant haze of loathing and apathy, you pondered what it was that you wished to be regarded as. Not just in name, but in your heart of hearts; you sighed, swallowing back a sob, thinking of what you hoped to be remembered for when it was your time to leave the world.

(If you get that chance, that is. But even if you did, you still have a long way ahead of you.)

And the three of you who had been left behind, you all coped in your own ways. Your brother was vocal, louder and more confused about his distress. Light refused to talk to you after your father's announcement, barely even giving you space to continue on as normal when you arrived home that same day. He did not know what to make of the situation, still a child and unwilling to accept the reality flaunting itself in his face.

(Smart little boy, he already knows what it all means.)

The boy was incensed, especially when you uttered those damning words—dead, dead, dead, she's dead—and at that moment, as he sobbed in Sōichirō's arms, you turned away. This was your first true betrayal, in his eyes, the first event in his life where nothing else had drawn him into such a rage. She would come back, he thought, in hard denial. He still helped around the house, of course, but his friendliness became scarce and he started heeding you with doubt.

"No," Light hissed once, snarling and with a tight grip on your shoulders, "stop it. Mom's coming back."

"She's not." You mumbled as you looked down, fiddling with the brush she used on your hair. It weighed heavy in your hands. "She won't."

"She will!" He shrieked, furious and indignant. Your brother glared at you, ready to spout off another torrent of denials, and you prepared yourself in turn to shout back at him.

You stood fresh from the pain of it all, still shaken at the fact that something had diverged from the story you knew so early on. You thought you could have composed yourself in time, for you to have had enough to draw away before she passed. Arrogance truly did become you—with a peculiar sense of nostalgia, the nails digging into the flesh of your shoulders made you recount the way Sachiko would run her fingers over your palms—and in your delusion, you were driven into the bubble of unsound judgement.

Hilarious and ironic, it truly was—but you had no clue as to how to move on.

(You want to scream, you want something to blame.)

But who else will you point a finger to, save for yourself, hm?

Before either of you could devolve into another argument, Sōichirō rushed into the room, Sayu's intended clothes still in hand—stopping you both from going any further. Light cut himself off and you sniffled upon seeing the items in your father's grasp, stomping off with a growl in your throat when the man stared at the two of you with a look of annoyance and aggravation. His gaze fell flat—sharp and alert—but you paid it no mind.

Neither stopped you from going back into the bedroom, and you made sure to slam the door with more force than necessary. You climbed up into the bed, and tucked yourself into the blankets. As you laid there, you caught Sachiko's scent—still lingering on the fabrics; that faded placement of hibiscus, near-gone, and yet coming back in full force. You cried yourself to sleep.

You supposed you presented yourself with a very saddening question—but at this point in time, you had yet to truly answer your own inquiries.

Legacy, huh?

You clawed at your hair, and your scalp stung as your nails dug into it.

Fuck you.

Even back then, you were never known for anything particularly great—good and remarkable in some things, but never great—and until now, you felt much of that mediocrity.

(Because you had the chance to do something, and yet, you did not.)

The You-of-Before was only one person out of many, with a few talents, but nothing remarkable—and the You-of-Now stayed much the same, only with a different set of circumstances.

(You never answer that question, not early enough to make a difference that matters to you.)

(Had you known what change you would have brought, beforehand, would you live your life a second time to experience it all again? If the You-of-Now—whose consciousness remained in the body of a little girl—went back in time and knew all that had happened, and all that she had done to affect the future…would she have a want or a need to relive what she has already gone through? Or will she change things?)

Wishing a life free from pain was akin to wishing for death—for if there was no pain at all, then there would have been no meaning to life; and to have no meaning in life was to make the matter of a being's existence pointless. If there was no agony, no suffering, no threat of what could make you unhappy—then you would perhaps continue in stagnation and in unhealthier delusions of hedonia.

(Still, it does not stop you from dreaming, from yearning. Living ignorant and satisfied is always better than living fulfilled but mad.)

Though—say, for instance, you did go back in time and lived once more. You had the knowledge of all that came to be, but if you changed one part of it—hah, ironic—how would you have determined if the changes that you made were for good or ill?

(There is no definite answer.)

Sōichirō, in contrast to Light, took your mother's death worse. To you, who spent your time being hyper-aware of the transience you balanced yourself on, it became easier to spot the changes in his personality. Granted, grief was almost always apparent to many, but your father did his best to shield his children from seeing him in such a state. His sorrow was subtle in the way infestations did not become apparent until they ate up everything in sight—in a manner that belied the pressure of holding back until something bled and festered.

It lay in the interposing of his moments in fragility, in the scintillæ of defeat and collapse that began to frequent. Sōichirō's pain was quiet. This was a man who held himself back, you realised—he had been, so far, so free with most of his emotions, but now that one of his most defining constants was gone, he closed himself off. It was…uncustomary, for him to shut away like this, though perhaps not unexpected. Only, you wished you knew how to give him comfort—that you could provide him with something that eased his mind.

You wondered if anything you did would merit nothing but pain and suffering, that you being here was a curse, because the change you have brought hitherto, was horrible.

No, stop. Assumption is still a form of arrogance in itself. You can't just presume—

(A part of you hopes that Sachiko wakes up somewhere nice and sunny, in a place where she can continue smiling and laughing. Perhaps Sayu may even be with her. You do not believe in gods, less even in souls and other mysticisms. But here, now, you make an exception. You are born again, and you dance with life as you are released into it. To keep yourself happy, you must think of the same for the two of them—you must.)

Some religions did not see reincarnation as a privilege. It was a punishment. You did not need to subscribe to that thought to answer your own questions, but it caused you to pause; and it brought you back to your previous point. If the You-of-Now went back in time and discovered that she could only bring pain and trouble before she could bring a better change, would she still have lived life a second time, or would she have stopped it before it became worse? The worst part of this, you thought, was that despite both the guilt churning inside your gut and the heartache you tried to ignore—deep down, a part of you acknowledged the fact that you would always bring yourself above all things, first. Yes, you would have taken the chance to live again.

Even if it meant pain.

At what point does self-care become selfish?

You bit your tongue as a bitter smile graced your lips.

I want to live, I want to die, I want everything—and I want to be nothing at all, and everything's just a whole fucking mess of ego.

(It is only natural, but still, you do not feel better about it.)

Does it make me less of a human to want for all of it, at once?

You remained quiet when your father brushed your hair for you when you awoke. He guided you onto the edge of the bed, clearly hoping to speak, but you only stared down at your hands even when he nudged you with a gentle touch. When you did not immediately respond to him, he sighed, and unravelled your braid. He ran the brush onto the tangled locks.

I want to be selfless, and I want to be selfish.

(You want to die, and yet, you also want to continue living. Quite the contradiction, no?)

I want to do my best, but on some days, I don't want to do anything at all, anymore.

"We'll be meeting with the family in a few days, Dawn." Sōichirō sighed, renewing the edge of the plait and securing it with a small green plastic band. "Your grandparents and your aunt will be at the funeral."

You blinked up at his reflection in the mirror. "…Auntie Sanao?"

"And my parents—your grandfather Masao and your grandmother Kamiko."

||[ 'New members! Fresh blood!'

'Don't get too excited, now.'

'I wonder how they'd be like?'

'Let's see 'til when these new people will last.'

'What're the chances it's that one pair?'

'The one with the boat-girl?'

'How long has it been since then, anyways?'

'He's not that old, yet. He's still alive…probably.' ]||

"Oh." You fiddled with a stray piece of thread on your dress. "Does Li-Li know?"

"Yes," your father hugged you from behind and took your smaller hands into his, "you and Light…things are going to change from now on, sweet girl."

"…I know, Papa."

He kissed the top of your head, and then closed his eyes. You felt the shaky exhale. "I'll tell you about what'll happen next week when we eat later, okay?"

"Okay, Papa."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

("Why're my eyes red, Papa?"

"Maybe the gods wanted to give you a gift.")

The gods gave you a curse.

And that was all.

The voice cackled, the echo of its horrible laughter reverberating in your head.

"Keep going, little aberration."

(You sink into a void, and all you know is gone. The water is cold, and then it becomes warm. You awake as it dissolves, vapourising; as it is replaced by a seething fire. The sun smiles down upon you, then, and it is as if you are walking its scorched earth. You fall to your knees, and they too, burn, then blood makes way to bone. You lay your hands upon the heat, and your entire skin melts.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Anaxagoras' ideas of randomness and indivisibility were closely related to his theory of apperception—or the idea that human minds could perceive things that were too small to be seen by their own eyes. This was in distinct differentiation to the more mainstream schools of thought in his era, which generally believed in divine revelation or divine perception.

Anaxagoras believed that the human mind was a unique and special entity—which was unlike anything in the physical world. He referred to this as nous; reason. All thoughts and mental processes stood independent from the bodies they had been confined to; and in such a manner, minds could have an impact on the world without being restricted by the physical limitations of said bodies. In this way, the philosopher viewed the human mind as a unique and powerful entity.

These were also immortal—they could live on after death, even though the physical bodies died.

The mind, while no more unlimited than the chaos of the world itself, held one thing constant as it went about with its life: motion. It was more boundless; the consciousness was capable of bringing ideas to light, possibilities that even the body would not be able to uphold. The concept of motion, in this context, became the instrument that the nous used in order to bring existence about.

All the things in the world, all the ingredients that made up its very being—these were brought about by nous, and they have all developed into what humans now knew in the present day.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(If you try hard enough, you can act like all this is a daydream you are only entertaining.)

"I'm so sorry for your loss, dear ones."

A woman crouched down to your level, taking your hands in hers. They were soft, you noted, warm and with the subtle fragrance of apples. Immediately, you saw her resemblance to your father. They held the same slant on their brows, a similar cheekbone structure (though hers seemed higher, sharper), shared broad shoulders, and were even of an equal height. She had dark brown hair, near-black, with the slightest hints of grey at her temples. Her eyes held a dim cast to them—appropriate, if only for the occasion—though there was a subdued joy that surfaced when she talked to you.

As she stared at you with kindness, something raged within you—a growling note of refusal sounding in your heart, simmering under your skin, restless to want to take over—but you forced it down, and made yourself give the impression of being curious and considerate.

Your eyes shifted to the name above her head.

|(夜神 参碧)|

|(YAGAMI-SANAO)|

(A part of you hates the notion that this woman has the same face as your father, whom you yourself take after. It makes your own visage distort into something cheaper, something ordinary, something irrelevant.)

(Tear it off, your teeth sink into your tongue, tear it off and make her bleed. How dare she, how dare she, how dare she—)

"What's your name?"

"Dawn." If the woman realised your voice was taut, she made no move to comment on it. You introduced yourself to her along with your brother, gesturing at him when he approached. "I'm Dawn, and this is Light."

The boy bent at the waist, polite as ever, but you tilted yourself only at the barest of angles. Of course, he saw this, and elbowed you to do the same as he had. You did not care—you refused to bow. And so, you settled for giving this stranger a mere nod instead.

"Hello, Miss…?" Light hesitated.

"I'm your Aunt Sanao," she laughed daintily, running her fingers over your knuckles, "we've never met. Well, Dawn and I have never met—and you probably don't remember, Raito, but I used to babysit you when your parents came around."

(In your mind, this will not matter. If you push the thought far back enough, it will not even be a worry at all.)

(She is nothing to you.)

||[ 'Oho, it's angry.'

'Twitchy little thing.'

'Let it be—though, I'll admit it's funny.'

'Oi, do you think Japanese funerals serve food?'

'You got your beads?'

'I brought them. Do you have the paper?'

'Eugh, is that incense? I hate the smell of this place.'

'Oh, oh! What fabric is that monk's kimono made of? It looks nice. I want one.' ]||

"It's nice to meet you, Auntie." Your brother offered, and you smiled without teeth, biting your tongue to keep yourself from saying anything you would regret. "Dad said you were coming. Are…are you with Grandpa and Grandma?"

Several other people had attended Sachiko's funeral. There were perhaps seventeen to twenty others there, perhaps more—you did not bother to keep count; though you knew many went to come to pay their respects and see her off. It made you more pleased that you realised, to know your mother had been beloved to those who came with. They stood in wait as Sōichirō finished going around to meet them. When the three of you arrived at the hall, you made sure to stay out of sight. Light came along with you, unwilling to face anyone else so soon. Your father left the two of you be—and you knew, while your absence was generally considered rude, he had asked the celebrant on your behalf to pay you no mind during the pre-funeral.

It was cold and damp outside when you heard news of your extended family appear. You hid with your brother in a hidden juncture at the place's outer area, watching small patches of grass sway from the soft blows of the wind. He clenched his fists in his lap, stiff in posture and turned away as you sat idly on a cool stone bench. At the first whisper of family, you perked up, though only made to spy when you did see them. And when you did, Sōichirō caught sight of you two, then called you over to finally take part in the interactions. You did not see Sachiko's parents anywhere, though you had a flash of the man's mother.

So, here you were.

"Yes. Mom's here, Raito." Sanao answered. "Would you two like to come meet her?"

"What about Grandpa?" You spoke up, when Light gave no immediate reply. "You said only Grandma's here. Where is he?"

The woman pursed her lips, eyes darkening. "He couldn't come. He's…somewhat sick, at the moment."

"Sick?"

"Yes. He can't go here because he'll get everyone else sick."

That's gotta be one of the lamest excuses I've ever heard.

Her jaw clenched and her grip tightened in the slightest bit. Oh, she was holding back from saying much. The warmth in her hands turned clammy, nervous—and you stared at her with a furrowed brow and an odd glint in your eye at the obvious lie. Likely, something came up. Sanao looked as if she wanted to fidget at your scrutiny, her discomfort slowly becoming more apparent when even Light shifted to give her a raised brow. Still, you supposed you cared little for her well intentions. If the man spoken of was not here, then fine—and that was that.

You shared a glance with your brother. "What about Grandma, then? Can we see her now?"

"Of course," she breathed, standing up, "come on."

"You know, I've never seen so much black in one place before. This monochrome is all so rather dull, don't you think? Even the few funerals I've seen in the past were lavishly decorated." The voice grunted somewhere near your right. "And what do you even do here, that isn't mooning over a corpse?"

You ignored it.

Your aunt released one of your hands and took your brother's in her free one, then directed you both to a corner in the main space. The place roomed various people, and you spared them a brief contemplation as you passed them by. You were stunned to see some children there—Mama's students, perhaps?—moreso when you glimpsed Aizawa amongst the attendees. He conversed with some of them, holding onto his own funeral envelope and speaking in a very soft hush.

Ah, I'd have to speak with him sooner or later, if ever, you blinked, it's been a while since we last saw one another.

"Here we are, kids." The three of you stopped in front of an old woman reading a glossy pamphlet. "Mom, meet your grandchildren."

"Well. Well, well, well, well. Now, isn't this interesting?"

||[ 'I told you!'

'So, the man is still kicking, then.'

'Him? How do you think he's doing these days?'

'Probably worse than how she left him, ha!'

'What I'd do to watch it all unfold again.'

'Oh, here, I found the papers.'

'What's that for?'

'Just pass it out.' ]||

The said family member squinted up with an unamused expression. She choked back a sigh with a curled lip, then ran her eyes over you and your brother.

You did not know what to make of her.

You supposed she presented herself like any other old woman—with white hair, wrinkles on her skin, and a…presumptuous disposition (not arrogance, no, but rather something along the lines of wisdom that naturally came along with experience). She sat in a slight hunch, the kind that had been brought about by a condition and not due to constitution. The woman moved languidly, carefully, like a snake preparing itself in a natural defence. Upon coming in front of her, though…an instinct, if nothing else, made the hairs on your arm stand up.

(She is a serpent and you are a rodent; she looks at you with an intrigued gleam in her gaze as you meet it—heavy, assessing, considerate—and you scutter about, pretending not to see the way she presents her regard. She is nothing in your mind, but still, your gut tells you not to push her away so easily.)

A gentle squeeze from your aunt's hand stopped you from your thoughts.

"Good afternoon, Grandmother." Light intoned perfectly and bowed again, face a pleasant mask, betraying none of his previous grief nor reluctance. Quietly, you sighed. "It's nice to meet you."

You copied the action, but, as you did with your aunt earlier, it was not as respectful as the custom demanded it to be.

(A mockery.)

"Good afternoon, Grandmother." When the eyes of the old woman—|(夜神 神子)|, |(YAGAMI-KAMIKO)|—roved over you, you froze up. It was not that you had any fear of this person, no, but the introduction would be wasted should you have remained petty and petulant this entire time.

"Come closer, both of you," she rasped out—and oh, it was that one, her intonation shrill and throaty as you remembered it being from the muteness of the womb—gesturing with open palms to you and your brother, "let me see you."

Light stepped forward first, taking the initiative to even smile up at her.

(It burns. He did not express any semblance of positivity towards you in the past week. Who is this newcomer—this bitch, your mind screeches—to take that from you?)

"You look so much like your mother, dear," she crooned, eyes crinkling, then patted his head and pinched his cheeks, "all bright and airy. I've gotten many proud calls and letters from your parents in the past, and I finally see why. The last time I saw you—you were so small, I could squish you in my arms! And then you'd roll over and babble like the silly baby you were."

(Earth and sunlight, leaves in autumn, copper—)

The woman laughed.

"Light. That's a perfect name for you."

She then turned to you, more anticipatory—and you did not miss that flash of something in her eyes. "Come on, little one."

With more resistance on your end, your aunt had to push you towards her. You quirked the corners of your lips, pretending to feel shy, and gave her a small grin. "Hello."

"My, my, my—and aren't you a second Sōichirō? Almost everything's the same. Cheeks, smile, lips." She tittered again, and this time, the sound truly grated on your ears. "It's as if I'm suddenly twenty-nine again! Sanao, look at her. She's just like you and your brother."

Don't you dare, you wanted to hiss, don't ruin this.

A wrinkled hand cupped your face, gently, but with a firm grip to it.

(It burns, it burns, it burns—)

"But we've all been wondering where the eyes come from. And…your grandfather, especially, has been wondering. Humour an old lady, wouldn't you? Where did you get them, little one?"

"Papa says it's from the gods!" You lipped out with a secretive tone, forcing yourself to seem smug and excited in this. "They gave it to me as a gift!"

"Just like the way they took your mother from you, hm? Is that a gift as well?" Kamiko sniffed, shaking her head. The comment took you aback, and from the way you heard your brother shifting in uneasiness behind you, you knew he felt the same.

There was a sharp inhale from Sanao. "Mom, don't—"

"Bah," your grandmother waved a hand, "they're beautiful children. They'll deserve only the best, and only the truth. They'll have to learn, eventually."

"But you didn't have to say it that way, Mother." A deep voice interrupted from the right, and you swivelled around to find your father with a slight jerk, not having seen his approach. Your grandmother's hand fell from its hold and the man frowned, standing beside your brother. "This isn't the place."

Kamiko only chuckled. "What better place than the one where the gods appear? What better place for truth than where the dead can still hear us?"

(The whispers laugh. With them, the voice snickers, and your head is flooded with the sound of scratching. It is not unlike the susurration of a wave in the sea, or the whistling of wind during a storm.)

Sōichirō sighed, then motioned for you to follow. "I'm taking the children to do the other greetings. Sister, please."

Your aunt pursed her lips, then regarded you and Light. The boy stared down at his shoes, quiet, and you walked over to him after sparing the old lady a glance. Subdued, you fiddled with the hem of your long sleeves, and pressed yourself against him. You gave Sanao a hesitant smile, which she returned. Sōichirō took his children into a half-embrace. "Come on, Light, Dawn—I'll show you what to do with the incense and the prayers."

Off the three of you went, and you made no further objections as your father uttered instructions as you went near the front of the hall.

"At least have the beads for the ceremony, please." Sanao's voice was faint.

"They're in my purse." Kamiko replied.

||[ 'That woman seems familiar.'

'Oh, do you think—?'

'Could be.'

'Getting good, isn't it? What a catch. I can't believe we found her, of all people.'

'Has she changed much?'

'Don't think so. You saw how she reacted.'

'Tough.'

'Still, anyways, the one from across the ocean—' ]||

"Your mother and sister will watch over us," Sōichirō whispered as he held the two of you close to him, head bowed, "their bodies are gone, but their spirits won't leave."

The caskets sat silent at the front of the room.

Light held a picture of your family in his hands, an angry expression on his face.

(The four of you are at the doorway of your new home, smiling at the camera with varying degrees of joy. Sachiko has the widest smile of you all, with a hand on her stomach and Light clutching onto her from the side. The boy is wide-eyed in wonder. On the left side of the picture, you sit at your father's hip, head leaning along the crook of his neck as you face forward. The man sports an affectionate grin, one arm wrapping around his wife's shoulders as you are all pulling yourselves together in the frame.)

Your brother's tears already fell much earlier on, and all that was left had been the frustration of a child that did not know how else to let out his own pain.

"It's unfair." He gritted out. "Why?"

It astounded you how quick his moods shifted, though perhaps that was only because the reminder of it all had been set aside as you met with the two women. You did not dare to look at either of the people beside you, too afraid to meet their gazes. White-hot shame coursed through your veins—and you scratched at the skin on your hands, reigning in the urge to rip something apart. Your father gently pried your fingers away when your skin turned a blotchy red.

The ugly feeling in your chest returned.

"Will you ever tell them the truth, I wonder?"

(You know, then, that you will never. Not a single person can see this part of you; you will show them what they expect to find from a grieving little girl, from even a bitter one as you grow, but you are not giving any other the knowledge of what you are, and what you did.)

"Mama and Sayu?" You murmured.

Sōichirō hummed, hands laid by the crowns of your heads, feeling along the silk of your hair. For a second, you were hit by another memory of that same motion, and you sighed in remembrance. It took you out of reality, only to be grounded back when your father replied to your question.

(You think you can stand as a ruler of everything, if you set your mind to it. The one to dictate how things go and how they change, should you want the chance. But only a fool does that. So, of course, you renounce the thought. It is not as if you have not already done it, so, really, it is all rather pointless to say such a thing.)

Your father rubbed the sides of your arms, and he pulled your brother into a firm hold. You joined in, eyes closed, calming your breathing even when the two of them started to cry in earnest.

"They'll always be with us."

"They'll never be with you." The voice snorted. "That's not how it works."

What do you take me for?

You gritted your teeth.

A mistake.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"Oh, hello, Mister 'Zawa," you croaked out, doing a double-take when you collected him from the doorway, "it's good to see you."

"Hello, Dawn." He greeted back and gave you a sad smile. He wore a formal suit, much like the last time you saw him; but now he carried a leather satchel and a briefcase, shrugging the material as he scratched the back of his neck. The man cleared his throat. "Apologies for the surprise visit. I didn't mean to show up unannounced, but I hoped to talk to your father about something."

You nodded, stepping aside to let him in. He followed and you offered to sit him in the living room, to which he agreed. Light chose that moment to make himself known, blinking at the stranger with curiosity as he passed by when he made to go to the kitchen. The boy stayed silent, though, and only continued to go about with his way as you called for your father to come to the living room. When Sōichirō arrived, Aizawa shot up from his position and bowed. Both men turned to you with an apologetic air, and you immediately understood what they meant to say. The two were going to discuss something confidential—or perhaps, at least something not meant for the ears of children.

You shrugged, unminding of their dismissal.

"I'll go," you waved at your father's friend, "I'll go."

Sōichirō nodded. "Thank you, Little Red."

Back in the kitchen, your brother was pouring himself a glass of orange juice. He paused when you went in, then went about, huffing and rolling his eyes. Of his recent behaviour, you had little to speak; you acknowledged that he had yet to fully and wholeheartedly mourn the death of your mother and sister, but for the most part, the two of you ignored one another. His refusal to speak with you stung more than you expected it to, but you accepted his silence, despite the pleas and the meltdowns sitting on the edge of your tongue.

(You want to hear his joy again, you want him to go back to the bubbly little child from weeks and months ago, but you cannot find it in yourself to truly force it out of him. There is a sour indignation there, demanding to steam away in the vomit of excuses and defences. Look at me, it screams, shrill, come back. Just come back, please.)

He took to your aunt and grandmother's presences well enough, even staying back after the rites had been done to converse with them. You did not join their interaction, too busy inspecting the flowers in the garden of the funeral home. You were comparing them to the wreathes, transfixed at the colours, and only until they reached a climax with their talk did you come back by their side. Sōichirō held you close, then, and sat you down in the waiting area. He was distressed at not finding you inside the hall, but being familiar with your wandering nature, only sighed in exasperation.

"That was Mister Aizawa—he's Papa's friend." You mumbled when Light took a sip of his drink. "We met during…we met when you were asleep. After the fire."

Your brother did not reply, and you did not push the reminder of that event.

(It pulls at you, more than you think it needs to. He looks like Sachiko, perhaps like Sayu would have, too; this boy who takes after your mother whom you want to look at you once more. If only because you could see your mother in him, and if he feeds you with even a glance—even just the slightest bit of a mutual understanding—you might take things easier.)

You greedy, desperate thing.

Please, Li-Li, you blinked away the wetness in your eyes when you sat on one of the counter stools, please, just say something.

"He's very nice, y'know? He has a younger brother too, like you," you shot him a glance, adding weakly, "well, I'm a girl—but y'know what I mean. Mister Mo-Mo likes cherry! Like me. Dunno what Mister 'Zawa likes, though. And Papa always says he's a very nice man at work. He helps with papers and cases and all sorts of stuff. And he helped with…with the fire. He's the one who found out about the se-rial ar-so-nist, y'know?"

The boy did not deign you with a response, only staring at the orange liquid in his glass with half-lidded eyes and a countenance of indifference. There was no casual retort, not even a snarky comment. He simply gazed at nothing as you made an attempt at chatter—and you were about to sigh again, on the verge of slumping and declaring him a bore; intent on obliging yourself to find reassurance somewhere else. But then he spoke, and it was with a vehemence you should not have been so jolted at hearing.

"She's coming back. Mom's coming back. Her and Sayu, they—they'll come back," he gritted out, finally meeting your regard, and it was as if the words alluded to something darker, something you would not think to happen, "they will. You can't just act like they won't."

Light snarled, the sound making you cringe; his nostrils flared and the glass shook in his grip, the liquid almost spilling over. It caught your eye, and you moved to take it from him before he dropped it. When your hands touched his, he breathed in sharply, and forced out an angry exhale. "They're here. Dad says so. They'll come back."

The whispers paused—one of them even snorted, coughing on laughter—with a silence near-considerate, and a heavy feeling settled in your gut.

In your wild longing, in your desperation; you wounded about with a swallow at the back of your throat, taking the statement for what it should have appeared to be. A child's cry in bereavement, and nothing more.

But the sweat on your palms did not dry off so quickly, and the nausea did not pass away. "Do you remember the fire?"

"This isn't the fire," your brother returned, teeth bared in a show of denial, "we were doing fine afterwards."

Not everyone, dammit!

(Little by little, his declaration comes into fruition. Little by little, your mind even comes to take it as fact. Little by little, your family rolls along with a subtle madness. Little by little, at random moments in the future, you wonder if you should have paid more attention to his words.)

"Not everyone came back from the fire, Li-Li."

"You don't know that." He shook his head. "We moved away. You don't know for sure."

The voices of the men in the living room faded back into clarity—and you settled for offering your brother a small, shaky grin. "You should meet Mister 'Zawa. You were sleeping last time."

"I don't wanna." He glared. "I'll sleep again."

"You can't just sleep, y'know—"

"You did the same after the hospital!"

"Well, yeah, because," you rolled your eyes, then grabbed the glass of orange juice from his hold, "but you gotta meet him. Properly. I'm grabbing Papa."

"Grabbing me for what?" The two of you jerked in your seats. There, at the doorway, both Sōichirō and Aizawa stood, watching your interaction with knowing looks on their faces. The latter bowed to your brother and introduced himself.

"It's…nice to meet you, Sir." The little manipulator hopped off his stool and did the same. "Dawn was just telling me about you."

There he is—he's doing it again—stop ignoring me!

"All good things, I hope." He smiled.

You giggled, placing the orange juice on the counter and jumping off your seat as well, and you approached the pair. "The only things I know! Oh, oh! Mister 'Zawa, how've you been? It's been so long! I didn't get to talk to you at…well…"

At the funeral.

||[ 'This forced cheer is rather grating, I won't lie.'

'It's doing what it's always done, though.'

'Doesn't make it any less annoying.'

'But it's funny. It's like watching a calamity try to cope with itself.'

'Hmm…'

'What?'

'Look at this. There, by the side.'

'…do you think—?' ]||

"Ask him about his brother, perhaps?"

"Nevermind. How's Mister Mo-Mo? You've never met Li-Li, have you? Here he is! Told you I have a brother!" Both men chuckled at your expression. "What? Li-Li was asleep last time!"

(A part of you wishes you can do the same. Go back to sleep, that is. After all, the water…the womb, you had nothing to do or to think of, then. Perhaps it makes you seem like something of a womanchild—but you can care less. Sometimes, oblivion is better than the waking life.)

(Greedy child.)

"Dawn!" The said boy hissed.

If you could do something right now, you thought, it would have been to distract both your brother and your father from the situation at hand. Things have arrived at a standstill—or, well, a point in which none of you had an idea of how to proceed. Sōichirō was too afraid, and Light was still too resentful. And you…you were too uncertain. Of the future, of your family—of whatever else you would do, then.

Sachiko was not here, Sayu was not here. People dear to two important characters were now people dead because of your own presence.

You did not handle loss well, rejection and shame moreso.

(You stand on the shores of a beach, feeling sand and pebbles underneath the water. Everything is warm. The waves lap at you with gentle strokes, and your fingers clench around the pearl rosary in your dress pocket. The water is clear, the wind is soft, and the sun rises with a rich glow.

"Disgusting—" you laugh to yourself, something angry in your throat, "what you did was another level of extreme stupid. Pointless and humiliating.")

So, you did what you knew best: you talked, you laughed, you smiled.

"It's true! The woman in blue said he fell asleep because of smoke in-ha-la-tion," you ignored the way both adults flinched and grimaced, "but he's fine now! So there! Li-Li can meet Mister 'Zawa!"

In the promise of a better tomorrow, you might have done more—in a deposit of elation and damnation, you would have held on tighter to the things you loved so dearly. All other sensations did not matter. It was the least you could do, to divert their attention away from the darkness looming at the back of your minds; and perhaps to come to terms for your own selfishness.

"Stay with us tonight, Mister 'Zawa! Let's have dinner!"

Sōichirō hummed, and gave his friend an encouraging grin. "Why not? You could work on the papers later on."

"I couldn't possibly—I don't want to intrude." Aizawa shook his head, bashful.

"I insist. You just earned a promotion, too, Aizawa. We can celebrate with the rest of the department later on, but how about a small meal for now?"

Surprise, surprise.

You quickly took charge of the conversation.

"Oh! That's so cool! A pro-mo-tion!" You gasped, and even Light started to heed the man in a new manner, his earlier argument with you forgotten.

He nodded along, thoughtful. "Stay, Mister Aizawa. We can talk too. Dawn's right—we've never really met."

The man paused, a choked-off sound coming out of his throat, and then sighed, laughing a bit. "Fine. If that's what you want, Sir. Dawn, Light."

You clapped. "Yes! I'll set up the table!"

(For a while, everything is fine. Or, at least, that is what you can tell yourself to believe.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"Your grandparents will be moving in, kids." Sōichirō ran a hand through his hair.

It's getting a bit long, Papa, your eyes followed his every movement, and also, what?

"What about Auntie Sanao?" You inquired.

"She'll stay in Kanagawa, but there's a chance that she might move closer. The point is—since your brother's starting school in a few weeks, you'll need someone to watch over you, Dawn."

Light nodded absently as he ate the scrambled egg in his bowl. He fiddled with his chopsticks, and you supposed this sort of arrangement was better than nothing.

"Not…not the kiddie-place?"

"Not daycare, not yet. But you could go there, if you wanted to." Your father paused, considering the notion. "It's…a bit more expensive, though. Are you sure you want to go there, sweet girl?"

I don't wanna go to daycare. It…

The glass of water nearly slipped from your hold.

I'll see Mama everywhere again. I can't. Not so soon.

You shook your head. "No—but thank you, Papa."

He patted your shoulder, sighing in relief. "Alright. Rai-Rai, we'll have to get you fitted for your uniform. Since I have to take you out by then, your grandparents would be moving in a week before we visit the school. Dawn, you'll stay with them."

"'Kay, Papa."

"Okay, Dad."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"Most things are mere constructs of the mind." The man muttered to himself, staring at his reflection in the polished obsidian mirror.

Our minds are responsible for creating most of the concepts and categories that we use in order to understand the world—and these concepts and categories never necessarily reflect reality as it truly is.

"I see myself as I am, or as I think I am…" he traced a finger on the minute trail of dust and smoke on the edge of the surface, frowning, "and I will never truly know if it is the truth."

The early morning light began to shine on the reflective material, and he observed as it glinted, dully, in the fading dimness of the time. He sighed, and then took a seat on a nearby ledge. He looked at the space of the classroom, contemplative, then peered out into the plaza.

"I will not know. I will perceive only this."

Anaxagoras knew he was not long for his endeavours; he had perhaps a day or two at best before the court moved to arrest him. He shook his head, unminding, and leaned against the stone wall.

It matters little, now.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(It is only a moment in time, a transition before everything falls apart even more.)

(You like to think that you have your mind prepared for what is to come, but truthfully, you know nothing at all.)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Right from the get-go, I planned to have Sachiko and Sayu die. I thought, Hey, maybe that could be a branding thing in my story. Has anyone else done that?

I'll admit I was exhausted at the thought of having to write in those two characters, particularly because a lot of Death Note fics don't even use them all that much. Sayu, more perhaps, especially with her kidnapping and because she has a larger amount of screen time than her mother, and perhaps because of all the Sayu self-inserts already made by other people. But as characters from canon themselves, they're always relegated as background objects. Not even as plot devices, just there for the sake of being there because that's how the original story demands it. I didn't want to waste her/their potential as (a) character/s because I wasn't paying them attention as I wrote.

Might be a controversial take, sue me—that's what I think, and I stand by it.

So, here was a Sachiko that (hopefully) wasn't as much like the awful parent she's portrayed to be in some fics. Yes, I do think she has her flaws, but she's not the worst mother to ever exist. She's still human, and she has her own limitations.

⸺

FACT OF THE DAY: Anaxagoras expanded on previous schools of thought, especially on Milesian and Ionian ideas. He was also a major influence for Socrates, later on, though there are no accounts to support that the two have ever met, despite coexisting in the same space of time.

He's sentenced to death for proposing the idea that the sun was a fiery rock. All jokes aside, the Athenian court accused him of being too materialistic, of being impious.