Play Detective

Blind Passage of Time No. 2

Puberty was an unwelcome, however necessary change. More growth- sometimes at completely impolite times- and the new smog over his head of what he would do about everything and anything.

It came with whatever knowing "normal" was, and arrived in a similar mechanism.

And, it was then that he realized that he was absolutely waifish, his hair was animalistic and unsightly, and that no one else thought this about themselves. Women worried about it, and women alone.

The strangest part was that he didn't care when it came to what he wanted. He didn't care at all. But, he (thought, at least) knew others cared. What impression did it make? What would happen?

What would go wrong now?

It was an anxiety that festered and writhed like an effervescent tab in a glass of water, but that wasn't so pertinent as to settle. Nothing changed outwardly, except for a newfound intolerance for the occasional knot in his hair. It had been cut again short, and made his face look phantomlike in length and it's emptiness of marks and blemishes save for the few and the timid.

His clothes began to fit more and more poorly as the weeks fled, either hanging off of him or hiked up to embarrassing crevices and showing off his bony ankles.

He found a fresh few pairs of pants as soon as possible that fit in the ranges of mediocracy, and was content.

He received a short lecture from Nursey about what was happening, as well as a halfhearted talk from Ruvie (which was a surprise), but still did not understand who the people in his dreams were doing to him and why it felt so good.

Or, why there was physical evidence of this in his underpants the next morning.

New expectations were also being tossed at him, leading up to the eventual decision of some sort of sociological study or to become a mathematician. Mathematics classes were becoming more complex, and he had gotten out of geology to pursue the hard sciences as well as a plethora of histories. That, and French. C'est embetant.

He still wandered, but less given his preoccupation with his studies and the simple urge to sit in his bedroom alone.

A simple urge that invited such diverse thoughts and feelings that all added up to rising discomfort. He rationalized quickly that he didn't like being around his peers, and upon questioning why, he found he felt lonelier in their presence. What he couldn't have would follow him then.

He was fourteen when he started to feel empty, but like a cedar box on a hot day. Full of hot air, and nothing at all to calm it down. It burned inside of him, from his gut up to his sinuses darting across his face. Everything hurt, and crying about it did nothing. No one came, no one asked anything. It made sense that way.

He wasn't a child anymore, or a girl, he wasn't anything that garnered pity. There were plenty others; young boys, the ones who everyone likes, might get adopted. They could have some comfort, to keep them from being broken in the transitional place they were in.

It was painful to remember when he was just... stupid as a little kid. Getting breaks because everyone thought he had a "problem".

So, what? He did, in fact, have a problem. By no means could he ever rationalize what, but it was harder and harder to maintain his distance. It was painful to be polite for so long. His head disconnected from talent; he learned and applies as he was expected to.

So many times he wanted to do nothing more than to race into Mr. Wammy's office and jump on top of him, to claw at him until he got what he wanted all along. But that was never going to happen, he could never muster up the courage.

Mr. Wammy, however, approached him with ease and expressed his concerns for L's spiritual health- yet another mysterious new plane of self coming to light. Atheism had not yet been realized to him. He was older than the usual student, but was attended to directly by Wammy.

He was given an Act of Contrition, but was not told that this was from Mr. Wammy's family lineage, not the Act that was taught to wards of the orphanage.

He and the priest didn't know this.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession."

And, then came the lies shuffling indignantly from his lips along with the ants swarming over him of the uncertainty.

The priest cleaned his throat, and there was silence.

"Son, I don't believe you need this."

"Wh... Father?"

"Let's think really, really hard about what I'm running. This is a church to glorify and spread the word of Christ. Did you know there is an opposing force?"

"Y-"

"Satan. He's got a feast day, your birthday. You were born into Satan's arms. It shows. We all see how evil you are. You can't fool God; there is no chance of outsmarting him."

"I... I don't understand."

"Get out."

"Wh-"

"Get out. Don't bother with Mass."

He got up quietly and left, willing his shaking limbs to quiet. Mr. Wammy caught his eye when he exited, and smiled faintly at him before he made his way back into the pew.

That night, as he laid on top of the quilts, he succumbed himself to the tears pushing up under his eyes. Even though it all seemed so silly, he... he expected to-

He didn't know what he wanted, but he knew what had happened wasn't nice at all. Left feeling sick, he put his legs to his chest and laid on his side, facing the window, letting everything hurt quietly.

A knock at the door brought Mr. Wammy's voice through the wooden frame.

"Hello, are you awake? The light was on..."

"Yes, I am."

"I won't bother you for long, but I am so proud of you. Did everything go well?"

"..."

"...L? Are you feeling alright? You look awfully flushed."

The hug took the gentleman by surprise, but he wrapped his arms around the ward nevertheless and rubbed the back of his shirt absently. A strong pat could be felt whenever the older sensed a change in L's stance- when he was scared senseless that he'd begin to bawl and ruin the illusion.

The lie, really. That's all it was.

With a curt goodnight and a goodbye, they broke, and Wammy had disappeared back behind the closed door.

It soon came to be a pattern over weeks and months that skin on his shoulders would prickle at night and would bite the inside of his lip, sensing the chaos giving him tremors.

In the morning, he was still and quiet, nothing was wrong.

This remained a pattern, the anxious nights and solemn days, until he found himself resisting sleep altogether.

Paranoia was like a small dog. Sitting at the foot of the bed, or struggling at the closed door to jubilantly recover it's master. The leash was attaching them, and soon L found that he wasn't strong enough to resist the tug outside/inside/far, far away. Just away, never where, never even why.

Barking and barking and barking and BARKING at him when he tried so hard to still the blood pounding through his head.

Something was wrong; he didn't deny it. The qualm laid in how to fix it.

Still, life carried on. His request for a bedroom to himself was granted- they removed his roomate's few articles (mind, he was sent to another boarding school he was enrolled in by his parents) the next day.