Work Text:
March 5th, 1989
Light is sleeping, and Soichiro is making dinner in the kitchen. I'd been meaning to write this a bit earlier, but I guess you get pretty busy with a new baby, huh?
Thankfully, Light isn't too fussy. All my friends who have kids told me I wouldn't be able to sleep a full night for the first year because of all the crying, and I haven't been able to sleep, but that's only because I'm worried. Soichiro keeps telling me I worry too much.
The first night with Light in the hospital was the last time I got a good night's sleep. Lately, I've been so preoccupied with making sure everything's in order so that I've had no time to myself, including sleeping. It feels like I'm in an endless cycle of pumping breast milk. Soichiro laughed when I told him that, and then I cried because I guess pregnancy hormones haven't fully gone away yet.
Light's healthy, at least, which is one less thing I have to worry about. He came out right on time, wailing like an onryo. At first, I thought it wouldn't stop, but he calmed down pretty quickly. He's been calm ever since. Like I said, he's not too fussy. Sometimes, it's a little concerning, but when I contacted our physician, she said I shouldn't worry too much about it. I'm trying not to. Nothing really prepares you for being a mother, not even all the books Soichiro and I read.
I'm nervous about messing something up. I mean, babies are so fragile, and Light looks especially tiny in his little hat and onesie. The books (and Soichiro) told me not to worry so much, but it's hard not to when there's a whole new human in your house.
Soichiro's setting the table, so I probably have to leave soon. I'll try to write more when I get the time, but between worries and taking care of Light, I don't have much of that anymore.
The Polaroid is weathered around the edges from where it had been slipped in and out of picture frames. In it, a man with thick glasses and long hair is leaning over a bed where a woman lies with a baby in her arms. There are bags beneath her eyes, though she's smiling, and so is he. The baby is swaddled in a pink blanket, likely done by an experienced nurse, one whose hands weren't shaking so much they appear blurry in the photo.
The woman on the bed has her hair pulled back into a bun, though strands of it cling to her sweaty face. Her husband's ring glints off her shoulder where his hand rests. It's vibrant against the blue hospital cotton. Her husband is smiling as well, though the lines around his eyes are covered by his glasses. He appears nervous, a pinch to his brows and stress within the pull of his lip.
Surrounding the hospital bed is a collection of gifts, most with Christmas wrapping, though some with the brown paper provided by the hospital. A scattering of wrapping paper is left alongside a stuffed sheep.
On the back of the Polaroid, the date December 25th, 1987, is written in smudged handwriting. Traces of pen ink cling to the backing where a hand dragged through the characters.
The birth certificate looks like any other of its time. Registration district, administrative area (The City of Winchester), DOB (October 31st, 1982), sex (M), all of it regular. It's tattered around the edges, a little torn where the pen of the signatures and date bled through the pages.
Overall, it's nothing special. Nothing to glance twice at. Everyone has one. Well, all landed citizens should unless they lose it, and in that case, you have to request a new one.
Except on this birth certificate, a line of black tape blots the name out. Its placement is messy, twisting downwards to reveal the concluding letters ET. It looks and feels like electrical tape, the type that sticks to anything but wires like crap.
The edges of the tape are peeled, skimming over the name beneath. There's no purpose behind its redaction, unlike the Sharpie on military documents or the lines of whiteout on school assignments.
As if the one who placed it wanted to erase something but couldn't bring themselves to do it.
If it weren't for the two letters peeking above the tape, it would raise the question of whether a name was even written on it. Still, the possibility remains that it is a collection of letters, a smattering of concepts, rather than the solidity of an identity.
The video is grainy, taken on a camera that should have been put down years ago. Even the audio is difficult to make out. The voices sound more like gurgles than words, the sounds a baby makes as it tries to speak.
A man with dark hair and glasses stands behind a child. He—the child—is sitting on the floor between stacks of colourful blocks. The boy is no more than one, with a concentrated look on his face as he continues morphing the blocks into towers. His father smiles at the camera, and his mother, behind it, giggles.
There are hints of stains along the armrests of the couch behind them and a collection of blankets nestled in the cushions.
The boy turns, gripping the fabric of his father's work pants. Slowly, he rises to his feet. He sways like grass in the breeze, digging his toes into the carpet beneath him.
His father's eyebrows raise, and his eyes widen behind his glasses.
"Oh," his mother says, the camera shaking.
"Mama," he coos. The boy stretches his hands forward and wobbles forward, his father close behind him with his hands in a similar position.
"Oh my God, Soichiro, he's walking!"
"Be careful, Light," his father chides. "It'll hurt if you fall."
"He's walking! I got it on video. He's walking!"
Light stumbles into his mother's legs, wrapping his chubby hands around her calf. The camera pans to Soichiro, who's fighting back tears.
"Guess this means we'll have to put him to work, huh?"
"Oh, shu—"
She's silenced by Soichiro leaning behind the camera.
The Christmas tree is covered in fluorescent lights, matching the wrapping strewn across the floor. Atop it sits an angel, pristine and glowing against the flower wallpaper. Beneath it, there's a baby, a bow fit snugly on her thin hair and wrapping paper over her legs. The camera blurs around the movement of her arms, Christmas confetti suspended in the air.
An aged sheep sits next to a folded apple-patterned blanket with tissue paper stuck to its tag. The girl is paying them no mind, instead watching the fall of confetti with the tree lights reflecting in her eyes. Her cheeks are rosy, and her mouth is formed into an O.
The card beside her reads: Misa's first Christmas-Birthday!
It's a photo of far lower quality than one could produce with any modern or semi-modern camera. The woman in the photo is smiling; the wrinkles around her eyes and lips creasing. She's holding a boy against her hip, and his sprawl of dark hair splays thickly on her blouse.
He is not smiling, but he is not frowning either, more wincing at the camera like the thought of being immortalized in a photo hurts him. Though babies aren't able to form such complex thoughts. He was likely defending himself against the barrage of the sun, reflected in the windowpane behind them, alongside the figure of a woman.
The woman, presumably the boy's mother, is holding her fist at the pair, signalling the end of a countdown. Her hair is dark like the boy's, though it tapers at her neck.
It, the photo, must have been taken in the early summer, somewhere between the rainy periods of the United Kingdom's spring and the sweltering warmth of an incoming heat wave.
A stack of books: crosswords, Sudoku, logic puzzles; all penned with markers, the type you buy in bulk that smell like plastic and can't stain clothing. The handwriting is scrawled, the writing of a child, but the answers are undeniably correct.
1, 5, 6 - 2, 3, 8 - 4, 7, 9 and Heroic Knight of Medieval Spain: El Cid and Dana-Red-October
On some pages, the marker bleeds through, numbers over numbers and letters over letters until they become a jumble of meaningless characters. Yet, still, the owner remains in control. The answers, when they can be deciphered through layers of coloured marker, are correct.
The Sudoku book is flat on the table with the numbers 7,5,2 - 3, 1, - 6, half-heartedly marked on the last page. Only a few characters from completion, though the ink is dry, and the covers of the books are dusty.
He's smiling at the camera, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and he's wearing a freshly laundered school uniform. Light swims in the bag on his back, which dwarfs his figure.
The building behind him is brick and fenced. There is a swarm of children crawling along a play structure in the distance, and some are drawing in the sand a stone's throw from his feet. He's gripping a lunch bag in his hand, blue with little dinosaurs.
His hair is cropped, surely recently cut, and styled so it sits by the sides of his face. Light holds a hand in front of his eyes to shade against the morning sunlight.
Misa steps back from the camera with her hands in the air. She's wearing a pearl necklace, and behind her, a girl around her age is twirling in a sequined dress.
"Come on, Kaori, strike a pose or something!"
Kaori stares at the camera and scratches her head. "I thought this was just for fun."
"Well—all the cool, big girls dress up like this. And they always pose!"
Misa curtsies at the camera with a giggle, dragging Kaori to bend with her.
"I feel silly."
"That's because you aren't wearing any jewelry." She steps outside the camera's view. "There should be some…here!"
Misa returns with a collection of bracelets. Slowly, she slips the bracelets over Kaori's wrists, adjusting them with huffs and sighs.
"Show the camera!"
Kaori smiles and jingles the charms of the bracelets in the viewfinder. Most of them are plastic, the type won from an arcade or the machines that eat coins and spit out cheap toys. Except one.
On Kaori's right wrist is a golden bracelet with a cross charm. Misa's overhead bubble light glints off its reflective surface.
"Not so bad, right?"
Kaori laughs. "Can we get a snack now?"
The dictation machine kicks to life, the tape whirring inside its plastic casing.
"Is this even on?"
The tape shakes in the audio.
"Looks on." L pauses. "Today is May 12th, 1996. It's currently—this doesn't matter. I don't need to know this."
The shifting of fabric, the creak of a chair.
"The local police reached out to Wammy House, and Quillsh decided I would be the best fit for the case. I've never done this—actually done this. Quillsh thought it would be good for me to expand my horizons. I can't say I'm not enjoying myself, if that's the appropriate way to approach this."
L sucks in a breath.
"The police came to me with the details. A man was murdered in his apartment shortly after the death of his father. There were no fingerprints at the scene, nor any physical evidence, which suggests premeditation. Still, his death was not violent, which also suggests to me his murderer didn't act out of hatred. It was pretty clean, actually. Quillsh wanted to keep the photos away from me, but I convinced the police officers that it was integral to my case for me to see them. Not the point. Anyway, the man was murdered by a gunshot wound to the back of the head. So, premeditation, lack of hateful motivation, and someone who isn't experienced in this realm. Or at least, I assume they aren't. If I were to murder someone, Quillsh if you're listening to this, which I know you will, I am not going to murder someone, I would want to make it look accidental.
The man has one sibling, an estranged sister. She's ten years younger than him, and they never had a strong relationship in their childhood. Recently, she found herself in extreme gambling debt. I could imagine she was betting on the money from her father's will, but once she found out she wasn't getting it, well…I believe his sister murdered him. Not believe, I know she did, I just need to convince the police officer, though they seem hesitant to believe the opinion of a child."
He rolls 'child' over his tongue vitriolically.
"Which is ridiculous to me because they essentially enlisted my help, but I digress.
After reading some novels, whose names I will not disclose for my ego's purpose, I discovered that talking to yourself can help you better conceptualize ideas. I'll have Quillsh help me put together a case brief later."
L shakes the recorder.
"Now, how do I turn this thing off?"
Light is, well, to put it honestly, scowling on the couch with a bow in his hair. His sister stands next to him, her hands permanently caught in his hair through the flash of the camera. She's beaming, a mischievous smile creasing the corners of her lips. It looks as if she's about to speak, and Light seems thoroughly unamused by the idea.
He has a line of shakily drawn eyeliner around his eyes, which resembles more a raccoon than a model or whatever Sayu was intending. His hands are gripping the couch cushions with what could only be considered vitriol.
It's evening, evident from the setting sun seen through the window behind them. Light's still wearing the pants of his school uniform, and his bag is leaning against the cushions next to him. He had to have been there for hours if it isn't clear by the annoyance on his face. Sayu seems to be going in for a grab of his cheeks, lipstick dangling loosely from her fist.
The night is not finished.
The magazine is creased along its spine, with some of the pages sticking awry from where they have been torn and shifted. There are lumps where images have been glued in or where pages with especially creative outfits have been dog-eared.
The largest page is a collage of sorts. A girl with a short fringe is smiling into the camera, a Vivienne Westwood necklace pasted to her neck and a frilly skirt drawn onto her legs in Sharpie. It still smells like it, the pages reeking of glue, markers, and hope.
One of the pages near the middle, a spread of "pieces," is cut into slices, parts of outfits scattered along the rest of the magazine. A pair of cross earrings is circled with the characters for love these!! written next to them in glittery gel pen.
There's a note next to a model with platinum blonde hair reading, check prices and another next to a Victoria's Secret Fashion Show saying sooo cool!
The final page of the magazine serves as a vision board. Misa has written her full name, characters bold against the background. Around her name, she's glued, stapled, drawn, and written pieces, ideas, and statements. In large lettering, it says Dream big, Misa.
The girl on the box is smiling at the camera, her fist resting beneath her jaw, with a red headband in her blonde hair. Her face is so smooth it looks illustrated. Above her head is the distinct logo for Palty Bubble hair dye in the cafe au lait chiffon shade.
The box is cracked open; the cardboard torn eagerly. On the counter next to it are a stain of bleach, wet instructions, and a photo of Paris Hilton.
The desk is covered with pencil marks. Some pressed through layers of paper; others scribbled accidentally. There's a paper to the side, Light's name written neatly in the top corner, the edges of characters veering off the edge onto the wood.
The marks aren't unique to a single study session. There're the remnants of a math problem in one corner and half an essay in the other.
Mixed in with the markings is a report card. The grades are stellar, as they always are, but the comment is less so.
Light is a brilliant student and a pleasure to have in class, but he struggles to thoroughly engage with the material and appears disinterested.
On the table are an assortment of candy wrappers and a few coins, as if someone had dumped the contents of the bottom of their bag and called it a day.
Gushers, Sherbert Straws, Flying Saucers, and Wham bars mixed in with 20p coins.
The wrappers themselves are licked clean, sticky remnants pulled from their interior. There's not a crumb in sight. The stack of wrappers is so large it seems excessive, the work of several children, but it's the work of one.
L, who is stewing over case files, while grinding gushers between his teeth rather than mashing them together. L, who wouldn't eat a single thing of substance, were it not for Quillsh forcing nutrient-dense foods down his throat.
Another Wham wrapper joins the pile.
Misa stares at the clouds shifting through the sky. She is sixteen years old and just secured the role of her dreams, advertising for a company she doesn't care about. But none of that matters. She was going to model. Amane Misa was going to be on TV, on billboards, in magazines: on store shelves. She was becoming a household name.
Misa took in a breath of the cool air, allowing it to sweep through her dyed hair. She recently stopped using box dye and got herself into a real salon, so the roots are no longer a lingering reminder of who she was. It's freeing; it's kind of her brand.
She bites into the popsicle melting in her fist and smiles at nothing. The weather isn't great. It never is this time of the year, but she's so happy. So happy. For the first time, she's carving out a slot for herself in the world.
The concrete is cold beneath Light's shoes. His tennis racket swings in his hand. He had just won the national championships, though he felt very little. Winning, succeeding, all of it, is what Light does. There's no world where he isn't in first place. It feels as natural as breathing.
He supposes he should be excited, so he puts on a smile and ignores the coldness soaking through his t-shirt.
When he won, his mother smiled at him, and his father clapped him on the back. He wishes Sayu could've been there, but she was busy studying for an upcoming exam, and it's not like he expected her to throw away her responsibilities for him.
Before he could squeeze into the car and answer his parents' incessant questions, he asked to walk home. The cold air was a way to relax his muscles, he said. His parents believed him.
Really, he just wanted a moment of quiet. Sure, he valued his success, but the people around him put far too much emphasis on it. It became tiring after a while, being the best. And eventually, the praise meant very little, especially when he knew he could've done better.
He missed saving an easy shot. Served the ball incorrectly. Fumbled over his own feet.
To anyone else, it was nothing. To him, it meant he shouldn't have won.
He takes a deep breath. It's fine playing on repeat in his mind like his parents' cheering.
The hotel room is far from Wammy House. As a grown man, L knows he should be moving out. People his age did that. They moved on. But he never saw a purpose in it.
L also knows he should appreciate Santa Marta, but his stress makes it difficult to do so. The city is beautiful and cool from the coastal wind, reminding him of mornings back home in England.
Today, it's rainy, less pleasant, but it's still beautiful. He could be outside, could be researching, could be doing anything other than wallowing over a dead end.
The local police had been useless in his investigation, but he was hoping, praying, more like, the locals would be willing to help.
They weren't.
It wasn't that they were impolite, but everyone in the town he visited pretended the murder never happened. It's like their lives were stuck in the moments before blood splattered across dewy grass.
L finds it difficult to imagine acting the same afterwards. You'd think there would be talk. He thought that in small towns, everyone knows everything.
L was at a loss. The crime scene itself was washed away by the frequent showers, and it's not like he could just stroll into the police department, declare himself king, and demand evidence. As much as he wanted to. Quillsh convinced him out of it.
He huffs, resting his arms on the windowsill. The rain was coming down hard, rebounding off the glass in fat globs. It annoyed him to no end that the world continued while he stagnated.
Damn.
He wishes he existed solely in moments so he would have more time to think.