Space , Space

“Pace, Pace, mio Dio!”

— La Forza del Destino —

Stories are generated by humans, and they are often what make them believe in the stories of the real world. They generate fear, and they can stir up rage. Stories might as well be an element of power; for fear and rage that they make with words are always present when humans destroy what they say they wish to protect. Humans then regret and regret, just for things that they had never owned. Yet they still write stories, and regret again.

Some do not regret. They never do, they never can.

What could go wrong for someone who doesn’t care about anything?

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“Morir! Tremenda cosa!

... Urna fatale del mio destino.”

The space had no color, and L was unsure if it could even be called a space. He could be existing in nothing for all he knew, and for all he cared. It had one door, which at least had color. It was black. Some days it was gray or crimson. Most of the times, it was black, which was why L called it black.

Hair filled up about half of the space. It had a floor at the bottom, then nothing as it went up. It could have a ceiling. It maybe didn’t. L couldn’t see where the space ended. He was hoping that it went straight up high enough, so that when something alive dropped from the top, it would die, and his hair could be dyed red.

In the present, his hair was too light, and his skin was too invisible. If he wanted to see himself, he had to wrap a strand of hair around a limb, and even then he could barely see it. Therefore, another small part of him wished that the person who might fall from the top wouldn't die, so that he could tell L if he was visible to other eyes or not.

L thought that if the person could see him, he would first dig out the person’s eyes as carefully as he could. Then he would dig out his own eyes that he was half sure that he had, and then replace them with the eyes of the person. Perhaps he would be able to see himself then. He hoped that the person’s eyes were dark.

Staring up at the endless stretch of space above him, L blinked slowly. Maybe the person would be visible to everyone, unlike himself. A skin that was dark enough, and hair that was darker, and eyes that were even darker, as dark as something could get. L knew that there was a time of darkness outside the space called night. He picked up a bunched up ball of his hair and stared at it. Night, that was opposite from what he was.

Maybe he could give the person a name. L also knew what a name was. It was something that was necessary for those who had dull senses of smell and sight. They labeled others with specific titles in order to make them identifiable.

It was the first thing that he could remember doing with a purpose. Most of the times, he thought about many things that he had never seen but felt like he saw, and he also imagined the door opening, and his body shattering in the air like butterflies. They were tiny flying things; they had colorful decorations on their bodies, in more colorful patterns.

Butterfly? L tried to take the ball of hair apart in his hands. He didn’t care if he tore the strands apart; he had plenty of them in the room. The word butterfly had a certain, good echo to it. The person that he was imagining wasn’t so colorful, yet L knew that there were black butterflies.

“Butterfly,” L said. It had been a long time since he had used his voice. It was too light, and nearly unable to be heard. He wished that it was louder, so that someone would hear him. He had to wish, for he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to dig a voice out from someone, or even himself. “He has many friends…”

L laughed slightly. He sounded like he was coming straight out of a children’s book, the things made of paper that young people read in order to fear or hope.

Friends were how people referred to a group of humans who were gathered together for survival or comfort. Would Butterfly need comfort or help for survival?

All of a sudden, it was as if something had crashed into his head, hard. L blinked slowly. He set down the ball of his hair.

“He’s strong,” L whispered. “He’s the strongest one in the world. He can kill anything that he wants. Even if he fell from the top of this space, he wouldn’t die.”

Quickly, L shot up to his feet and walked briskly to the door that was now crimson. The balls of hair that he had put together tugged at his scalp. Regarding the door with wonder, he set a palm against it. His hand wasn’t transparent, yet he couldn’t see it clearly even on the red surface. When the hand began to burn horribly, L finally pulled it back.

A tilted smile slowly formed on his face. “He can break through this door. He can see me, he can kill me.”

This time, his pace was more relaxed as he walked to a particularly large ball of hair. He plopped down, watching his hands trying to pick apart the thin, long strands, all tangled together. It had been too many times, more than he could count, that he had tried to pick a new ball apart and failed.

“Butterfly knows about me.” L went on. It was as if he was in a trance. The space full of white hair and his half-invisible self seemed to make it like a dream experience. He had temporarily forgotten about replacing his own eyes with somebody else’s.

“He doesn’t like how I can’t see myself. He hates how I can’t open the door…” L paused. “No, no. I killed his mother. Father. Sister, brother, another sister. His dream is to come looking for me. Most people are like him, but they aren’t strong enough. They want Butterfly to come kill me instead.”

He lay back down. There was nothing above him, or perhaps there was.

“Butterfly learns how to run faster than I can, and shout louder, and be stronger.” He whispered. The hair on the floor tickled the sides of his face. “He knows everything that I know. He can do everything that I do, and even more.”

In his mind, he had already pictured a tall, powerful man full of hate. He was not very old, yet he knew everything about the world, just like L. His physical appearance was darker than L. And Butterfly could see him; L imagined hopefully. It was the most important thing there was about Butterfly.

“He hates me, but he’s very calm.” L murmured to himself, trying his best to visualize a pair of sharp, black eyes that weren’t angry but calm and cold, like the surface of a frozen lake. “He knows what he wants to do. He knows where I am. I am…”

Tipping his head back, L glanced up wistfully at the blank space. “Up.” He finally said after a long pause. “I’m somewhere above Butterfly.”

His hands moved automatically in order to tangle numerous strands of light hair into the vague shape of a ball. “He thinks that it won’t be easy to come up and kill me. So he makes… a long, sharp black stick. It’s like it has a blade on all sides of it. It can never break. It is the only thing that can kill me.”

Again, he dropped the ball and crawled over to the door, which was now gray. L set a finger against it, and watched it hiss and steam. “Then he looks up and realizes that where I am, it’s too high. But he doesn’t give up. Because… he loved his family.”

L pressed all his ten fingers against the door, ignoring the terrible feeling that it brought of shattering from the inside out. With difficulty, L leaned his forehead against the door. “What does dying for someone feel like, Butterfly?” He asked to nothing. “Love doesn’t feel good, does it?”

He let his hair fall all around him, so that the gray door turned white. “Butterfly begins to build a set of stairs. Everybody helps him… They are not strong enough, but they do want to kill me. I’ve killed too much.” L blinked, freeing himself from the excruciating pain by leaning away from the door and onto the floor. “Have I?”

Coughing, L stood up, gathering up an armful of white hair with him. He began to go around the room, picking up the strands that seemed to shiver in his grasp. They formed mountains and mountains around him. L dropped his hair when it got too heavy for him to carry. Staring at the mountains, he twisted his lips up and down in thought. “Right,” he said.

L paced around the room briskly, tugging at the mountains of hair. “Three years,” he muttered to himself. “It’s three years after. The stairway is finished. It’s not very good, but it can hold one person.”

Shooting a glance over his shoulder and at the door, L continued. “Butterfly is everyone’s hero. They can get their revenge now. They’re nervous, so nervous.” His voice was now reduced to a low, shattering whisper. “What if Butterfly dies? What if he falls off? When he’s gone, who’s going to replace him? Kill me for them?”

With one hand, L scratched the back of his neck, staring at somewhere in front of him. “Butterfly has his black, sharp stick. His hate is still there, but he’s still calm. He has grown over three years. He knows that he can kill me.”

L knelt on the floor, and tried to tie a strand of hair into a tight knot. “He has to. He knows.”

After gazing a moment at the unfinished knot that was falling apart, L brushed it off of his lap, and stood up again. “He climbs up the steps. He stumbles, but he doesn’t fall. He’s stronger than me, much stronger.”

His heart was beginning to beat faster, and he wasn’t sure if he would ever figure out why. After thinking that it would be better than not ever knowing, he stared up at the supposed end to the space above him. He parted his lips in a strange longing, then closed them.

L began to languidly spin around on the spot. He closed his eyes, paused, then extended his arms out to the side. He had wanted someone to fall from the top of what was up there, someone with dark eyes and dark skin and dark hair. He wanted to see if the person could see him; to know if he was invisible, or if he actually wasn’t so light. What did his own eyes look like — did he even have any? What would the person think of the big and small balls that he had made with his white hair? He could share them if the person wanted. They were useless. He could cut them all out.

There was a sigh in the air. Perhaps he had imagined it, or perhaps it had come out from his mouth instead. “Butterfly readjusts his grip on the stick. He’s still very calm.”

Without even realizing what he was doing, L turned to face the door.

“He opens the door. It’s easy for him. It doesn’t even burn him.” L whispered quietly, like the flapping of a small wing, as if he was mourning the death of a bird. The door that was now completely black rattled once, twice, then silently began to crumble apart into the air.

L’s lips drew a soft line curving upward, and a pair of colorless orbs above them seemed to fade in laughter.

“And I’m waiting.”

_____________________________________

“…Abiit nemine salutato.”

The man’s black, emotionless eyes basked in the fading sunlight as his feet stepped down from the last stone of the crumbling stairway. Hushing, the crowd below him seemed to forget every doubts that the people had been whispering. Countless eyes scanned the man’s brown face in wonder, which harbored no visible wounds.

With one strong, brown hand, the man lifted the head of a pale young man, who seemed too white and erasable to be human. Strands of white hair were falling around the head’s eyes, nose and lips. The eyes were only half closed, yet no color was visible through the dead, tired eyelids.

Slowly, the dark man’s lips parted. “The creator is now dead.” He said loudly, a solemn growl hiding behind his words. He threw the head onto the ground in front of him. “Now we have our revenge.”

The crowd went silent for one short, split moment, then began to roar in triumph. The very air wavered in victory. Seemingly not noticing the unmeasurable glory being presented to him, the man glanced back at the stairway behind him, which had almost entirely fallen apart.

“The creator is dead,” he numbly whispered to himself.